Slipping Under The Surface
by abc79-de
Summary: Trory Sequel to Untouched. Rory and Tristan trying to be together in the face of all that seems to block their path. COMPLETE!
1. Being That Guy

Title: Slipping Under The Surface

Chapter: 1—Being That Guy

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I don't own anything buy my laptop, and trust me, you don't want this laptop…

Description: Sequel to Untouched… Another Trory… It starts out M because Untouched was M…

* * *

She deserved the kind of guy that doted on her.

A boy that spent his time with her, or, in the very least, thinking about the next opportunity he'd have to be in her presence. The boy that was truly deserving of her would keep his hands in viewer-friendly locales in public and had funny anecdotes at the ready to make her mother love him.

Even just thinking about this guy made him want to sucker punch him. He pulled the foil open and slid a thin stick out of the package. He ignored the looks of disapproval he garnered from the instructor that noticed the extraction as he neared the door to the courtyard. He mused if the frustration that was coursing through him was the reason that she was yet to invite him over to her house in the hours that the sun graced the earth.

Not that he was complaining.

If she didn't ask, then he didn't have to feel guilty for evading the issue. It was just one less way he was letting her down. And it entering his consciousness just another sign for him to know she was different.

He could barely light up his cigarette, as his lips upturned at the very thought of making an attempt to impress her mother. The polite conversation. The chaste kiss he'd have to plant on her in departure as her mother no doubt looked on for signs of inappropriate behavior. He wondered if she'd even recognize him.

Yeah. It was probably for the best, no matter how much it was starting to wear on them.

He heard the soft click of her saddle shoes as she made her way across the stone pad walkways of the main courtyard. He knew it was her, not only from the syncopation of her steps, but the sheer fact that no one dared to come up to him when he was venting his frustrations. It wasn't that she was braver than anyone else in this school—she just saw what the others couldn't see.

"You're unbelievable," she began, her cheeks already flushed in anger as she got within reach of him.

"Is that so?" he asked, letting the cigarette fall from his hand as he pulled her against him. His hands separated to conquer her—one snaking around her waist and managing to find the soft skin at her waist; the other sliding up to loosen the tight pull she'd arranged her hair up into earlier this morning. The taste of tobacco was lost as his tongue grazed over hers, forcing her to fight against him through parted lips, slowly bruising each other until he was nearly satisfied.

Her fisted grip on his blazer released, so that she could use her palms to push her body backward from him. "God," she griped, moving to smooth her hair and retuck her shirt at the same time.

"What, you want me to quit?" he asked, unable to sound innocent of the acts he partook in.

"Yes," she leveled him with her eyes, making him wish for her to be armed with daggers instead. At his maintained eye contact—the dangerous look of want for more of the same, more of her, she crossed her arms over her chest to protect herself from the sheer proximity to him.

"Can't," he reached out to graze her cheek with his fingertips as his shoe stepped over to ground out the remainder of his cigarette. "I'm addicted."

"You're going to get expelled," she warned.

"Worse things have happened."

"Did something happen with your dad?" she asked, clearly at the ready to be a sounding board. He didn't want a sounding board, he just wanted her to agree to get in his car and go where ever he ended up—to be there to take his mind off of everything.

"You're gonna be late for class, and don't tell me you don't care."

"Tristan," she bit her lip, causing the redness from their interaction to remain.

"I'll pick you up after you're done with the _Franklin_," he promised. "You still have a couple of hours after?"

She nodded. "You can talk to me," she said finally, after pushing the grass around in different flattened patterns with her shoe for a couple of extended moments.

"Four o'clock?" he asked, stepping in to cover her upper arms with his hands.

"Fine," she agreed, leaning up to meet him in another kiss—one that he made sure would last in her memory from now until after her meeting. Or in the very least, one that would get him through the next few hours.

XXXX

Her body language was stiff and disjointed when she threw her bag into the backseat of his car and slid into the passenger seat. He put his hand on her knee, only to feel her muscles flinch under the pressure of his palm. He squeezed the sides of her knee, and she smacked at his hand.

"What?"

"Nothing. Can you drive a little slower, please?"

"Paris, again?"

"It's nothing," she lied.

"I'm taking care of this," he said simply.

"No, you're not," she turned in her seat, leaving his hand to rest on the leather of the seat as she now faced him, her legs tucked up under her. "It's not your battle."

"She's been Super Bitch to you since the day the school found out about us. There is no reason to let it go on any longer," he pointed out.

She let out a deep sigh. "I'm a big girl, I can take care of myself."

"Goddamnit," he pulled the car off the side of the road in a nearly blind rage. "So, explain something to me," he gritted his teeth. "How is it okay for Dean to stand up to me for you at the Winter Formal, but not okay for me to stand up for you against Paris now?"

She was silent, knowing in the deepest part of herself there was no difference, save for in her mind that just wasn't who she saw him as. He wasn't her protector; he was the one she had to protect.

"Tell me."

"You'll just use the same back-handed slander that she uses, and I don't want to stoop to her level. They'll get bored eventually, there will be something more scandalous than our being together pop up soon enough."

"Oh, get off it and just say what you're really thinking," he raised his voice up to the next level.

"Oh, you know me so well, why don't you just tell me what I'm thinking?" she matched him, in no mood to deal with his insecurity after whatever torture their classmate had inflicted upon her.

"You don't want to admit it!"

"Admit what?"

"If you don't fight Paris, it's just like all the times before, when you were able to deny any association with me. You don't want to be pulled down, to my level, I believe you just called it."

"I didn't mean," she said softly, reaching out to touch his hand. He withdrew it quickly.

"Whatever."

"Tristan," she shook her head. "Paris is just something I feel I need to take care of on my own. I appreciate that you want to help," she began, as diplomatically as she could, to take his anger down a notch. She knew what would really take his anger down properly, but she still held fast to the morals that kept her from calming him in such a manner on the side of the highway—tinted windows or no.

"You want me to take you home?" he asked after a moment, as her hand rested on his thigh.

"No," she shook her head. "We still have time," she smiled knowingly. Gone was the frustration that she put herself through every day at school, in its place was the fire that he swore only he was able to bring out in her. Some days he worried that he was imagining it, like he'd daydreamed of her so many times before they got together.

God, he just wanted someone else to see her look at him like that.

XXXX

"You know, pretty soon the school year will be over, and you'll have three glorious months without Paris and her cronies to put you in such a bad mood."

"You're afraid that I won't need you at all?" she teased, skimming her hand up his chest—his shirt having been lost over an hour ago off the edge of his king-sized bed. She remained, amazingly, in the t-shirt he'd afforded her to wear in place of her uniform. It hung like a mini-dress on her when standing, but rode up gloriously to reveal the bottom of her panty line as they lounged in his bed.

"I'm just saying your attention can be put to much more productive means," he leaned down to kiss her, relishing in the last few minutes before her common sense would force her up out of his bed and back into the stodgy clothes that she'd left the house in early this morning.

"It's going to be weird, all the wedding plans," she said suddenly. "Max is coming to Friday night dinner tonight," she made a face he couldn't quite decipher.

"First time?"

"First time," she said slowly, her lips pursing and pouting as the finished forming the second word. Her thoughts seemed to be swirling around her brain, unsure as to whether or not it was safe to escape altogether.

"You think your grandparents won't approve?" he hedged a guess.

She shook her head and looked at him as if startled that he were sitting so close, despite the fact that she had her hand on his chest.

"No, it's just," she took a breath in and squinted at him. "My mom sort of suggested that maybe I'd like to invite you along."

"Would you?" his voice came out a bit raspy, as if he needed to clear his throat instead of his actual sudden urge to pace.

She frowned. "Would I what?"

"Like me to be there," he reiterated, having to smile at her ability to lose the train of conversation through to this point. Clearly she had expected him to beg off straightaway. He wanted too much from her to do that, despite the voice in his head that told him it would be the wisest plan of action if he wished to be her boyfriend tomorrow.

"Oh, well, I hadn't really given it much thought," she lifted her hand to enable her index finger to encircle a lock of hair, curling it and unfurling it again and again until the single section began to take a new shape.

"Liar," he baited, taking her telling hand into his.

"I didn't think you'd want to, I mean, we haven't done the whole meeting of families," she looked up at him through still lowered lashes. She was referring to the fact that she hadn't gotten to meet his grandfather since the whole ordeal of his being in the hospital. Despite her being there for Tristan, she'd not been allowed into the ICU unit, and never once during their long stretches of waiting for news did any of his other relatives show up to join them in the family lounge.

Finally his throat lost the tickle that had been building up as he realized what she wanted to hear. "Grandfather hasn't been up to guests, but he told me on Wednesday that the second he's been cleared by the doctor, he wants to have us over."

"What about you?"

He kissed her knuckles. "I would like you to meet my grandfather."

"What about your parents?"

"I would love to save you from the ordeal that would be meeting my parents," he said just as sincerely. "But you never answered my question."

"It's not that I don't want you to go," she began carefully. "It's more that I don't trust the situation to play in our favor."

"Meaning your mother is going to hate me."

She looked ashamed, but she answered. "That depends," she pulled at the edges of the t-shirt, creating a tent as she hitched it over her bent knees and letting it come to rest down near her ankles.

"On?"

Her eyebrow raised. "On? Your badass factor. Lorelai can see right through any act, and she won't put up with certain qualities."

"Such as?" his teeth ground together in back. If these lines of conversations kept up, he was going to be paying his dentist a small fortune.

"Smoking, drinking, having sex with her teenage daughter—or alluding to your ability to have sex with her teenage daughter," she narrowed her eyes knowingly.

"Maybe I should call Dean and have him give me tips?" he suggested, his tone coming out much more snidely than he'd anticipated.

Maybe she was right in worrying that her mother would hate him.

"No," she sighed angrily. "In a perfect world I'd like for you to be able to come over and hang out, whether Mom was there or not, or asleep or not for that matter," her cheeks flamed with recognition of her having snuck him in for midnight encounters more than once in the last few weeks.

"I'm your boyfriend," he informed her.

"I realize that," she glared.

"I'm perfectly capable of meeting your mother without bloodshed being involved."

"So, what, you want to come?" she asked, now incredulous.

"I'm just saying it can't be as bad as you make it out to be," he spat out too fast.

"You're sure?"

Now her voice was hopeful. His head was spinning at the realization as to what she'd just accomplished in five minutes or less. There was no way out without backing down—and with her sitting engulfed in his shirt, her big blue eyes cresting with hope and excitement, he was incapable even if he believed in backing down.

"Yes, I'm sure," he won and lost all in one moment.

"Because if you think," she began, but he groaned, pulling her in for a kiss—and pulling her legs out from the net she'd encased them in.

"Don't think I don't know what you just did," he growled, snaking his hand up under the thin layer of cotton that nearly covered her.

"Tristan!" she shrieked, giggling more as she squirmed harder against his roaming hands.

"I have to get all my bad behavior out now, don't I? I mean, what if I pent the urge to touch you up until tonight, and I just couldn't control myself?" he looked her in the eyes as he lifted the hem up far enough to reveal her belly button to temporarily rest the palm of his warm hand against her cooler skin. "What would your mother think?"

"How much could get pent up between now and two hours from now?" she demanded, her naivety filling him so much that he almost didn't have the heart to show her.

"You really wanna know?" his breath caught up on her skin as his lips lowered down to the peach fuzz that covered the skin just north of the panty line that he'd been careful not to disturb since that night that they'd come so close to throwing away the last of the barriers that separated them.

He just couldn't admit to her that it'd scared him maybe more than it'd scared her.

"I want to know you," she put her hand over his, sliding it down on top of her exposed underwear.

For the briefest of moments, he knew there was one way in which he could never let her down.

His fingers traced down in the wake of where she was removing her clothing, doing his best to assuage her doubts by showing her what he needed from her. What she evoked in him made it impossible not to give her what she wanted. All he was sure of was that it was his touch that made her come back for more, and he's always been one to play to his strengths.

Her fingers ran the length of his jaw on both sides as she curled up toward his head, giggling and gasping, bringing his attention back up on her face. She shivered in pleasure as he slid his lean frame up level to hers.

"That's a lot of energy for two hours," she batted her eyelashes at him, her eyes spinning even as she centered in on him, his lips as always seeking at hers.

"There's more where that came from," he promised.

"You're putting that Energizer bunny to shame," she giggled, which made him shake his head and duck it under the edge of her too-big t-shirt.

"Poor bunny," she gasped as he found even more ways to exert himself and her by extension.

XXXX

"Shouldn't we give her some warning?" he asked as they turned off the highway, her using the mirror on the passenger-side visor to apply fresh lip gloss to hide the fact she'd rubbed them raw against his body.

"She told me to invite you," she reminded. "Relax," she smirked, clearly enjoying the way his palms were beating against his steering wheel to fend off his nerves. "Or is that all that sexual frustration building again?"

"Don't remind me," he looked over, his eye catching at the way her skirt bunched up on her thigh.

Following his gaze, she tugged at her skirt quickly, causing him to smirk.

"I realize I'll owe you," she admitted, albeit dejectedly.

"Damn straight. You know that party I was going to drag you to over your dead body?"

"No," she said, shaking her head.

"Yes," he smirked. "Come on, would letting loose in front of other people every once in a while be such a bad thing?"

"You know how I feel about all that," she accused.

"And you know that I won't let anything bad happen to you. These are my friends."

"So go."

"Rory," he pounded one fist against the center of the steering wheel. "You want a boyfriend you can bring home to your mother? I'm here. I want a girlfriend that is willing to be seen with me in public."

"That's not--," she began, but it was too late. Heat raced up his spine; he was pissed.

"That's how it fucking looks!" he yelled.

"Fine!" she yelled back. "You get through this evening without any incidents with my mother, Max, or my grandparents, and I will go to that stupid end of the year party," she gave in.

He wasn't sure how he was to pull this feat off, but he was bound and determined to do what she'd asked—to let her know him. He couldn't keep denying what he wanted and still be himself. Deep down she had to know that, no matter how much she fought him on it.

Hell, maybe she just liked to fight.

"Don't underestimate the bunny."

And with that she had to smile. "I hate you," she informed him, as she tugged valiantly at the corners of her mouth, determined to stay upset with him for as long as humanly possible.

"Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart," he said as he pulled his car to a stop in front of her mother's house, ready to face what the night would bring.

He'd never be accused of doting on her, but no one would ever say that he was lacking in passion for her.


	2. Girl Going Wild

Title: Slipping Under The Surface

Chapter: 1—Girl Going Wild

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I don't own anything buy my laptop, and trust me, you don't want this laptop…

Description: Sequel to Untouched… Another Trory… It starts out M because Untouched was M…

He knew how to placate people.

She'd watched all evening as the charm flowed from him in the form of gracious compliments, polite acceptances, and the suppression of this own needs.

She witnessed its build; slow at first. After shaking hands with Richard and offering Emily a small box of Belgian chocolates, she'd felt his thumb making restless circles as his hand rested on the small of her back. As he discussed the fact that there was indeed a long-standing tradition among the men in his family for studying law at Yale, his eyes caught hers as his hand 'accidentally' grazed her leg while reaching for his club soda.

The ferocity of his intensity blindsided her, truth be told. All she could figure was that hearing his father being called a good man was too much for him—for it was then that he'd asked after the bathroom. And she was also fairly certain that when Emily suggested she 'show Tristan the way,' she'd meant no reference to the abrupt removal of her panties as he shut them away from the others.

However, asking him if he wanted to talk seemed futile as his mouth was already, and quite enthusiastically, occupied. Her hands braced on the level porcelain of the dual-sink, leaving her able only to look on in full view thanks to the lending hand he employed to hold the fabric of her skirt up at her waist. Seeing him taking so much pleasure in her body was captivating. No matter how shockingly inappropriate it was considering the people she respected most in the world were making painful small talk and awaiting their haste—especially hers—return.

There were so many ways he held her.

He placed one more kiss on her body, slow agonizing withdrawal, before standing up to gauge her reaction. Indigence failed her. She was left in awe, and for that she hated herself.

"They were expecting me back already."

He kissed her forehead. "Then you shouldn't have taken so long. Now, where _are_ your panties?"

It wasn't a tinge of sarcasm—he was honestly playing this game with her. Heat from conflicting emotions ravaged her body.

"I'm _not_ going out there sans underwear," she informed him none-too-gently. As many times as she worked her mind over the five-second period of crossing the threshold and feeling wet heat in place of damp cotton, all she saw in her mind's eye was the flash of want in his eyes upon initial contact of their bodies.

"That wasn't underwear, it was a thong," he breathed in her ear. "You were teasing me, which is sexy enough, but hearing you say thong, that's even sexier."

"I don't know what in my tone of voice make you think I'm playing games here, but," she glared, despite her inability to loosen the death grip she had on his biceps.

"Relax, you'll get 'em back," he soothed, helping pull her skirt straight over her hips again.

"Right now," she demanded.

"Tonight. Consider this a warm up," his eyes still twinkled in triumph.

"Okay. Clearly meeting my family was too much for you," she held up her left hand now, as he allowed her to find her balance without his body as a support.

"Spend the night with me," he urged.

"What is wrong with you? Did you hit your head on the sink?" she searched for clarity.

"I heard your mom promising Medina that as soon as they could escape Hill House by any means necessary, she'd make everything better over at his place."

"Okay, on a scale of too-much-information, that's a gouge my eyes out kind of detail," she spat, shuddering now in disgust, not ecstasy.

He was her own double-edged sword.

"I'm hurt you aren't offering up the same rewards—after all, they are focusing on me, thereby taking all the pressure off of him," he pointed out, sounding dangerously smug, not to mention serious.

"And here I thought you were here for me, not for some ego boost or bedpost notch."

She didn't intend on phrasing her comebacks so viciously. She felt, instead, as if he drew them up out of her. As if he could coax all things primal from the depths of her.

"You know you aren't a conquest," his anger left him like smoke escaping his air passages, pushing out fast but lingering in the space around him and drifting over in curly wisps to invade her.

She was ensnared in his intangible grasp.

She sputtered; words of a nature she couldn't imagine passing through her lips going in circles through her conscious mind.

"Very convincing from the boy that expects sex as a reward for suffering through a dinner with my family."

She felt him tense as they heard the falling of footsteps in the hall. Forgotten breath swelled in her throat as the warmth of his palm held fast against her cheek, holding her opposite ear to his lips. He refused her more than a whisper.

"I don't meet parents. I don't discuss Yale. I don't bother to catch names of girls I fuck," his growl caused a shiver to race down her spine. If her discomfort dissuaded him, he was unable to derail. "Are these the things you want to hear?"

"If you don't want the trouble," she gritted her teeth.

"Baby, I am trouble," he did his best not to sound convincing. "Better get used to the idea."

"You aren't like that with me," she began, "Do you just not want me?"

"There are things I can't believe you even have the nerve to ask me," he shook his head sadly.

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Prove it," he pushed.

"Fine. Just wait sixty seconds, then follow me back out there," she said challengingly.

"As the lady wants," he smiled smugly, feeling his victory she was sure.

"The name is Rory, how many times do I have to tell you?" came her coquettish response, as she offered a smile before taking her leave. It seemed the seldom silent boy was in stunned admiration.

"He needed help?" her mother's voice yanked her from the other dimension she'd just been immersed in.

"Toilet paper crisis," she covered. Badly.

"Look, I realize the 'don't have sex' talk is probably worth a once over now," she cringed, "but I thought the pitfalls of messing around in this house went without saying."

"We didn't--," she froze up at her mother's instant deduction.

"Is everything alright?" Emily asked, butting in from behind them.

"Toilet paper crisis," Lorelai answered without taking her eyes off her daughter.

"I swear, it's too much to ask that the slightest consideration for planning for the comforts of guests be taken by these people," she groaned, ready to get a lighted torch and find the newest maid.

"Don't worry, Mom, Rory took care of him."

More glaring between the women went unmentioned by the older redhead. "Well, then let's rejoin the boys—the salads are ready."

XXXX

"I can't have sex with you."

Her announcement shocked him the same as it did her. The abruptness and preemptive nature of it caused him to shut his bedroom door and cross his arms over his dress shirt.

"I'm sorry—I seem to forget soliciting you."

"Why else…."

"This clearly will be a newsflash to you, but I enjoy spending time with you, and you have so many damn time commitments—the sheer number rivals mine. That's beside the fact you aren't one to follow me around, waiting for a free moment of my time to open up so I can bask in your glory."

Her heart lurched at his sincerity.

"Is it too much to ask to want to hold you while you sleep?"

"No," she whispered, feeling at once foolish and ashamed. "It's just, I never thought," she was unable to continue as her mouth went dry.

"But since you brought it up," he crossed the room now. "What provoked the proclamation?"

"Mom heard us, in the bathroom," her eyes met his reluctantly.

"And now she hates me," he nodded. "I was doing so well with your grandparents, too."

"Their loving you would be enough to ensure my mother's complete despisal of you, actually," the revelation came completely offhand.

"See, now this is a helpful proclamation."

"You're rich, good-looking, and sneak me behind closed doors. This makes you every mother's dream?"

"A few—probably not in the way you mean…."

"That's revolting," she groaned at where his mind went naturally.

"The truth hurts. You think I like hearing your mother hates me?"

"She'll come around," she put her hand on his arm, nearly sure of her own statement.

"How? Mental reprogramming?"

"I'll plead your case; convince her that if you're in my life, then you're in hers by default. And I promised her that I'd talk to her, you know, before, so as long as I keep that promise," she knit her eyebrows together in thought.

"Wait. Before?"

"Before I have sex."

"Like, right before?" his forehead wrinkled with concern.

"No," she smiled softly. "Just before. I'll talk to her, then…."

A look of perplexity graced his features.

"She isn't going to kill you. I won't let her."

"What makes you think I'm available to your every whim?" he teased, just so she wasn't sure if he was just trying to cover his uneasiness or not.

"It won't be on a whim. A lot of thought and discussion and preparation will go into this particular decision," she shook her head as reason and fear mingled.

"Rory," he pulled her close, taking her hand in his as they reached into the pocket of his blazer. He let go as her fingers wrapped around the swatch of cotton she'd been missing for the past two hours.

"That night in your room—the way your body sought out mine to ease that ache," he whispered as her eyes closed—doing her best to keep hold of blessed reason. "That's what it's like. And I know it scared you."

"We weren't prepared," she whimpered.

"You're never going to be, and that's what makes it great. Do you think I was prepared for you?"

She blinked at his raw emotion.

"What about tonight?"

"Tomorrow my parents get back from South America, signaling the return of my status of prisoner of war. And, of course, the day your mother no doubt invests in a chastity belt for her still-chaste daughter. Tonight none of that has to be dealt with."

She searched his eyes, hating the loathing she saw there and knowing she had the power to ease the things that tormented him. If only just. "You really just want to be with me?"

"Think of it as obeying your wishes," he smirked.

"As sweet as that is, you have to promise me one thing before I agree to stay."

He waited without words. She wondered if he'd agree to anything she asked right now. Curiosity filled his eyes.

"I appreciate the part of you that doesn't want to push. But I still need…."

Why couldn't she just form the words to tell him? Were those words likely to shock him? Prolific showcases of her extensive vocabulary would never suffice in an attempt to draw out the desire of her cravings when it came to him.

"Come to bed."

She felt his lips on her forehead, his hands in search of the hem of her shirt. The innocence of his fingers simply grazing against her ribs as he stripped her down made her want to cry. The soothing tones of his voice as their exposed bodies made contact with one another clashed with the ignition of skin that was unable to achieve stasis.

His needs were so clear; she could hear his body calling out to her the same as she'd seen the resentment he held for his family flash in his eyes after his latest call from his father. She ached to soothe him in ways he was able to do for her as well. Being so brazen to assume wasn't in her nature, but she couldn't shake the certainty of his nearness.

With one hand of exploration, she reached down, encasing him and instantly feeling his turgid response. His hand on her shoulder should have halted her insistence, but instead her hand closed tighter around him.

"Fuck," he now gripped her shoulder. Encouraging her to be sure.

With a few more strokes she noticed that the fruits of her labor satisfied immediately. As if this is what the term instant gratification was spurred by. "Tell me what it feels like," she urged.

The surprise that nearly covered the lust in his eyes made her smile; but the deepening of his want with the next blink of his long black lashes nearly unnerved her.

"I'd rather tell you what it's making me want to do to you."

Her hand slowed as his lips brushed her neck—as if he were sucking her strength from her.

"Is it not good?"

Her words caused both of them to halt completely. His breath fell, erratic and hot, against her collarbone.

"What?"

She averted her eyes—to avoid looking both into his eyes and at her now static hand.

"I've never done this before," her admission broke him out of confusion. His hand covered hers, encouraging her to continue on exactly as she'd been doing before her break in confidence.

"When I'm inside of you—you know how it feels when I'm stroking every last nerve ending at once, like I'm lighting you on fire with repetition and angles?" he appeased her prior query.

Her head rested against his shoulder now as her grip got tighter and she set a rhythm for him slightly faster than his usual methods. He could feel her brow dampen against him, she was sure. She was much more aware herself of another collection of moisture her body was producing.

"Imagine turning yourself inside out," his head gave an involuntary twitch, "and you don't even have to touch me to start to arouse me. That's what it feels like."

He let go of her to grip the sheets as he grunted and cried out. Her name. A shiver ran down her spine at the very sound—she'd never imagined her name so entangled in a moment of intimate climax. She wished for a moment to hear the sound roll off his lips again and again.

"Keep going," his breathless instruction came.

"Oh," she blushed and resumed, at a much slower pace as once again guided by his hand.

"Like a rollercoaster slowing down," she observed, making him smile through the small quakes of pleasure.

"I was right before. You're very odd," he leaned up carefully without pulling her against his body to kiss her deeply. She sat up as he slid off the bed.

"Where are you going? I thought most men went right to sleep afterward?" she attempted to hide any distress in playfulness.

"This isn't something you want to let dry," he frowned. "And you need to stop hanging out with what are clearly bitter, unsatisfied women."

She pulled her pillow up and wrapped her arms around it; clutching it to her chest. "Is that your way of saying my satisfaction is immanent?"

He ducked his head out from the bathroom. "But honey, I thought pleasing your man was its own reward," he deadpanned.

Her security pillow flew from her hands and bounced off the door frame near his head.

"Don't think you're getting that back."

"Don't think you're not its replacement."

"As long as I'm not replaceable," he inquired as he slid back into bed next to her.

"Serious question?" she bit her lip and widened her eyes—a trick she learned would turn off his bullshit smirk and cause him to look at her with concern. And sometimes fear.

"Do your worst."

"When you were describing what it felt like … you know," she put her hand on his freshly scrubbed stomach.

"When you jerked me off?"

"God," she pushed him away, not quite far enough since his solid form seemed to refuse to budge from her side of the large bed. "That answers my question."

"Which was?" She was trying his patience; his tone was more than clear of that fact.

"I'm sorry, my question got lost in the sea of your lewd thoughts," she snarked.

"Not every sexual act is about two souls uniting and the pursuit of procreation. Sometimes people just can't keep their hands off each other. If you're going to be with me, you can't get pissed off about my need to get off, no matter if it's via your hand, my hand, your mouth," he ticked off a list that had reached a length long enough to darken her cheeks.

"Does that list even stop with you and me?"

She never really meant the things that succeeded in hurting him. Her conscience was just too cloudy to prevent them, and her pride too wounded to take them back.

"I didn't ask you to do that," he growled. "If you don't want to do something, then don't fucking do it. Do not blame me."

"I'm sorry, am I supposed to be confident in my ability to be enough for you?"

He was sitting on his knees now, looking as if she's just knocked the air out of him.

"You're going to have to really hear me, because as many different ways as I've said it," he took a deep breath. "The only things I am obligated to do are the things my father mandates—at the risk of being written out of the will and being shipped off to some military academy I've been threatened with since I was ten."

"So you've been squeezing in all the girls you can just in case?"

"Is asking you to listen too much?"

His hand ran through his hair—more impatience showing through. She bit her lip and mumbled her apology.

"My point is that every last second I've spent in your presence has left me literally aching for more, can you understand that?"

There he went, stealing her breath again without even touching her.

"Being with someone else," he rubbed at his tired eyes, causing her to realize the late, late hour. "It just wouldn't … anymore … you," his eyes lit up as she found the courage not only to look at him, but to touch him. She entwined her fingers with his.

"Fit," she supplied.

He nodded. "Some of it will be, you know?"

She frowned at the seeming jump of topic.

"Will be what?"

He pulled her against him as if to prove his point preemptively. She could feel the juncture of their bodies—knowing skin was freely gliding over skin with each shallow breath—but she'd be damned if each time they touched the connection didn't get deeper, beginning to sink in as if their bones were attempting to fuse.

"The soul melding kind of sex," he imparted. "And that's something I've never experienced."

"I'll be gentle," she smiled.

"No, you won't," he whispered, his lips crashing into hers before she could register the weight of his words. She'd learned his actions enough to know when his words would fail him. She held fast in his arms all night, willing him to realize she would rather be nowhere else.

She wanted him in the face of riling everyone else.


	3. A Fall From Grace

Title: Slipping Under The Surface

Chapter: 3—A Fall From Grace

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I don't own anything buy my laptop, and trust me, you don't want this laptop…

Description: Sequel to Untouched… Another Trory… It starts out M because Untouched was M…

It was grace for which she strove when under pressure.

He thought of the situations in which he felt pressure—to be sure they were few. It was akin to studying another culture when he watched her; the most happenstance of situations seemed to throw her off-kilter and into some sort of protective mode where she knew her actions were being watched and decoded.

Perhaps she was just too aware of his interest. Or maybe she just wasn't quite used to it yet.

Her body was too stiff under his touch. Normally her hand relaxed into his after the first few seconds, each time he grabbed it like the first. As if his want to touch her in some way surprised her. But for the last half hour, ever since they crossed the threshold into the party, he had waited for her release into him. He kept one arm wrapped around her easily, so that to the world it portrayed his desire—to her, his protection.

A gnawing feeling began in the pit of his stomach—something unnamed and unfamiliar. He pulled her in tighter and wished for that to be enough.

His usual escort was someone who would giggle too hard at his friend's dumb jokes, someone he had to keep his arm around lest she be lured away by someone who was paying more attention than he was. Not that it was hard. Taking stock of better options was par for the course at these parties. Not a priority, just a fact of truth. As they neared the source of life, the line of kegs, he realized he wasn't sure any other girls were there.

"You want something to drink?" he asked, leaning in close enough to brush his lips against her ear. He could claim that it was too loud, but in all honesty his proximity had nothing to do with the deafening sound of the music played by the DJ.

"I don't like beer," her voice was barely audible… not out of shyness, but he realized the music really was ear-shatteringly loud.

"I don't think you're gonna find coffee, unless you want to make it yourself," he knew what would relax her was a beer—where as caffeine was just going to work against him, helping her remain jittery and on edge. If he could just get her to realize his friends could be funny and get her on the dance floor….

"Soda, then? Water?" she turned and craned her neck to search.

"There's a pool out back," he offered.

Her lack of amusement was evident with the removal of her body from his. "I'm just going to go try to find the kitchen."

"Wait," he called out, catching her hand in his and squeezing tightly. He leaned his torso near to the guy pumping at the closest keg and inquired to alternate beverages.

"There's more stuff at the other end of the house," he shouted and pointed back toward the other end of the sprawling mansion.

"I'm gonna go," she yelled up into his ear, thanks to her careening up on her tip toes.

"I'll come with," he shook his head.

"I'll be fine," she promised, shyly now as she kissed his cheek.

"Rory," he called out, but she was lost in a sea of party-goers.

"DUDE! You gotta come see this!" Chase Anderson was in her place, tugging at his elbow before he could blink.

Someone else was already handing him a beer, and he didn't even have time to ask what he had to see. Chase was more than willing to offer up the missing information.

"Clarise started yelling at John, calling him a whoring dirt bag, next thing we all know, she's performing a lap dance by the pool for Grant!"

"Look," Tristan shook his head, not willing to step between the best friends over a girl that was admittedly not worth the trouble to replace the shirts that would be torn or the skin that would be bruised in the process of fighting over her. "I need to find Rory," he yelled over the noise of the onlookers cheering Clarise on. She'd lost her shirt, along with her mind, apparently. She'd be crying in the halls and having her daddy sue by Monday morning, when the video of this performance made it to the whole school thanks to the Chilton email system and the internet.

"She's a big girl," Chase said quickly before howling at the removal of her skirt. "This is our lucky night," he yelled.

"Like every guy here hasn't caught this show privately?" Tristan took a languid drink of his beer.

Chase laughed, but instead of joining in all he could think was that he was currently proving Rory right. That she was off in search of a quiet room with no one else around so she could read the book she no doubt snuck past him, despite his playful body search he performed in the car. He needed to find her.

"Tristan! You better come, man," Josh Hamilton was now behind him, urging him the direction he'd begun to turn on his own. Josh did, however, get sidetracked and let out a yell of approval at the scene in front of him.

"Josh, what?" he refocused his attention on his steel gaze.

"It's Rory. She has company," he led.

"Someone's hitting on her?" his shoulders tensed up like a cat on the ready for attack.

"It's Gellar. She's got her in a corner. I think there's gonna be hair pulling."

"Shit," he swore, handing off his mostly untouched beer to Chase and following Josh's lead back through the party. Josh patted his shoulder and nodded toward where Rory had no doubt found her drink of choice—but hadn't gotten much farther.

"Why does she even bother to come to these parties?" Josh asked of the blonde.

"Beats the hell out of me," Tristan began toward the two girls, unable to focus on anything but the words coming out of the petite blonde's angry mouth.

"Then why are you even here?" Rory yelled back, asking the one question seemingly on everyone's mind.

"My mother said I had to stay until a suitable hour. She thinks I'm going to magically turn into Sorority Twit Barbie and find my Frat Idiot Ken and live happily ever after, not caring one whip about my grades or getting into medical school. But your mother isn't like that," Paris' eyebrows rose knowingly.

"So?" Rory asked bitingly.

"So, does that mean that you actually like hanging out with these people? Face it, Rory, if I don't belong here, then you don't belong here. You aren't fooling anyone, and once he has his way with you, he'll see it too," she yelled.

"What's the matter Paris, no one will fuck you? Maybe if you take that stick out of your ass," he came up beside Rory, edging his way between the two girls.

"Tristan," Rory admonished, her hand clutching at the fabric covering the small of his back. He towered over the other girl, ignoring the near-lethal tone his girlfriend had chosen to use.

"Oh, good, you're here. Wouldn't want your precious girlfriend to hear what she's really dealing with, would you?" Paris seemingly shirked his prior comment.

"So that's what you do at the paper, make up stories to print? At this rate you'll have a whole issue devoted to me and my misdeeds. I knew you had a thing for me, but I had no idea the extent," he snarled.

"The only thing that amazes me about you is how you manage to squeeze your ego through the doorframe. Or do they actually just lift the roof and lower you in?" she shook her head in anger.

"Your concern for my wellbeing is touching, but isn't it time for you to flee? I think your carriage is about to turn back into a broom or fly-trap or, you know, whatever," he looked her over dismissively.

"Tristan, stop!" Rory yelled, now using her nails to get his attention. He could feel the strain of arousal at the sensation of her nails digging into the tense muscles of his back.

"God, what?" he turned to her as Paris ran off, tail between her legs as always, only to stew and bring out an even nastier side of herself upon their next meeting.

"How much of a heartless prick do you need to be to prove it to people? Because let me tell you, I think everyone's buying the act," Rory informed him.

"What is your problem? Paris was bugging you, now she's not. And trust me, she deserves a lot worse than I was doling out on her," he defended.

"For what? Being stupid enough to think you're worth her time in thinking about? For defending you to me when she'd catch you and me fighting in the hallway? What exactly did she ever do to you?"

"Excuse me for not being all buddy-buddy with people who make your life a living hell," he stepped back, holding up his hands.

"Yeah, well, it takes one to know one, right?" she turned and slammed her unopened soda down on the table before beginning her march to the front door. He was on her heels in an instant, not caring who was knocked out of his way in effort to keep her in sight.

"Where the hell are you going?" he yelled as she walked past the parked cars toward the street.

"I'm not obligated to be here 'til 10:30," Rory turned on her heel, her eyes blazing through him. "I'm going home."

"Funny, I don't remember being ready to take you."

"Then stay and find someone who wants to be here," she spat at him.

Tristan heard the yelling from the backyard, evidently signifying more skin being exposed and perhaps the instigation of fist-to-body contact. He pulled out his keys and unlocked his door. "Get in."

"I'm not going anywhere with you," she crossed her arms over the light summer tank.

"And yet I seem to remember you coming here with me under your own free will," he stepped forward toward her.

"My own free will? Is that what telling you I didn't want to come means to you?"

Holding in his frustration wasn't something he was used to, and for the first time he saw why. His chest burned and pain seared behind his eyes.

"You didn't even give it a chance," he countered.

"How am I supposed to give it a chance when you're just going to ruin it anyhow?" she lashed out.

"What the hell have you decided that I've done? I was trying to protect you!" he felt the burning ease as his voice rose.

"By making Paris feel like an outcast? Newsflash, Tristan, she doesn't need any help in that department, and she only gets harder to deal with the worse she feels about herself," she explained.

"Why are you defending her? Did you hear what she was saying to you?"

"Who says she's wrong?" her voice dropped as her eyes were suddenly unable to meet his.

"Fuck," he turned around and punched the side of his car. He knew she was wincing—shrinking back away from him—but he didn't care. He saw the worry in her eyes when he turned back to face her. "Which part do you think she's right about?"

"I don't belong here," she stammered. "I don't know these people, I can't dance, I don't like alcohol, it's too loud to talk or read, or have an intelligible thought for that matter," she began to rant at him as she gained speed.

"You think too much," he brought his hands up the backs of her arms, breathing in the scent of her hair as he stood over her.

"You should try it some time," she answered, clearly not ready for the making up portion of the evening.

"What do you want me to do? Apologize to her? She's home by now."

"Just, take me home. I don't really want to be here anymore."

"I can get us a quiet room," he began, but ended in a sigh as her arms remained locked over her torso. "You realize that if you'd just stop acting like you didn't belong, you'd fit right in."

"You want me to fit in with those people?" her eyes were dangerously serious. "You want me to be just like every other girl in that party? Leaving nothing to the imagination for every single guy that wants any piece of me he wishes?"

"No," he groaned in frustration. "I'm saying you are better than any of those girls, there is no reason for you to feel like you don't belong anywhere!"

She didn't believe him, but in her disbelief she looked on, waiting for him to convince her. Persuasive speaking was well within his forte.

"You want to know what all those people in there really think of you, or would you prefer to go on thinking that they all hate you and don't think you're good enough to share air with?"

"I don't care what they think!" she shook her head, and he noticed that her hands were balled into tight fists. She wouldn't be in such duress if she weren't considering his words.

"Then why can't we just go back in and have a little fun?" he asked honestly.

"Go ahead," she said calmly. "I'll just catch a bus back home."

"I'm not going back in there without you."

"I give you permission," frustration poured from her.

"I want to be with you. I've told you this. Are you really afraid I'm in it to fuck a virgin? 'Cause in my experience, it's way less complicated to screw a girl like Clarise, who not only knows what she's doing, but isn't going to be on my ass about if I call her the next day."

Pushing her too far was something he only contemplated after he'd succeeded in doing it. Without another word, she had slipped out of his grasp and the girl that never exercised was half-way down the block.

XXXX

His foot never left the brake, as the idling speed of the luxury car was too fast for even her harried, huffy pace. He could hear the sound of her heels clicking angrily against the sidewalk through his uncharacteristic rolled down window and turned off radio.

"There won't be another bus 'til morning, you know," he said, not affecting the clipping of her feet against the pavement.

His foot hit the break quickly as she began to trip when her heel caught an upward lip of the sidewalk; she stepped down hard, but kept going, with only a blush on her cheeks to signify her embarrassment that he'd watched the whole process.

"I'm getting tired of this," he said when he started idling alongside her, now sure that she hadn't lost her footing.

Her shoulders shrugged in the tiniest rise and fall.

"Seriously, I'm disappointed in you. Making me follow you in my car? It's so cliché, and I'm pretty sure the only girl this has ever happened to is Molly Ringwald."

"Well, I'd aspire to John Cusack, but I don't think the weather is going to cooperate."

"I certainly wouldn't complain. I bet you look great soaking wet," he couldn't help himself. Besides, he'd learned that if all else failed, she was physically incapable of staying quiet in the face of his blatant sexist come ons. He looked up and pressed his foot on the brake, as she'd become completely static.

"Thank you. Now get in the car," he urged.

"Over my dead, rain-soaked body," she glowered.

"You can't walk twenty miles."

"Says you," she huffed.

"You're immune to exercise, self-admittedly. I believe you said something about it being an inherited trait."

"So is stubbornness. If I set my mind to it, I can do it."

He put his car in park, jerked the keys out of the ignition, and stepped out to walk toward her. They were in front of some random home, just down the street from the on-going party. She was right about the stubbornness, it showed in streaks through her blue eyes as she stared him down. So help him if he didn't want to throw her over his shoulder and toss her head first into the back seat of his car.

"What's it going to take?" he countered.

"To get me in your car?" she asked, one hip now jutting out as she assumed he was handing over the most coveted upper hand.

"Well, I'm not letting you walk home," his pride and nothing more was pouring out.

She sized him up, unable to tell his motivations due to the jumble of what he felt for her, and uncrossed her arms.

"I will get in that car if you, just once, admit that I don't belong at those parties," she began. He opened his mouth to speak, but she held up one hand and began speaking louder. "Say to my face that our being together makes no sense whatsoever, and that no matter how hard I try, I will never fit in with your friends."

He swallowed. "You finished?"

"For now," she let out a long breath.

"I can't agree to all that. Our being together is the only thing that I've ever felt make sense," he reached out to slide his hand into her hair. "And I could give a shit if you fit in with my friends."

"Then why are you forcing it?"

"I was hoping that being with me would be enough for you to want to be there."

Now it was he that didn't meet her gaze. He closed his eyes at the feel of her hand now on his cheek, and it struck him at the odd way they were holding onto one another. Tentatively; maintaining contact without fusing any bonds.

"It's enough," she whispered.

"Come on, I'll take you home," he pulled her in toward his chest, relaxing at the feel of her breath letting out against his breastbone and the feel of her fists bunching up the fabric that had been smoothed over his lower back.

"I didn't mean to ruin the night," her voice dripped with apology—he nearly let go of her at the change in attitude. "I know I shouldn't let Paris get to me, but I feel bad for her."

"You feel bad for her?" Tristan asked, unable to grasp the magnitude of good that lay within her. "Has anyone ever told you that you're too nice?" he asked still in awe.

"You can't be too nice," she rolled her eyes. "Taking pity on Paris doesn't make me a saint or anything."

"I think it qualifies as a miracle, so it might not get you there, but you're well on your way."

"It's just, she wouldn't be so mean and crotchety if she had something or someone in her life, you know? It's almost like she's trying to be my friend, but she's never had one, so it's coming out as hostility instead of good will."

"You have a twisted way of looking at the world. Didn't your mother teach you any self-preservation at all?" his eyes twinkled with amusement as she talked.

"She's not so different from you," she bit her lip now, clearly nervous to be broaching a personal subject with him.

"What?" he couldn't help the defensive tone—he was only pardoned by the fact that she had been anticipating his reticence.

"You know how you acted with me, before we started dating—even since we've started dating. You've never been in a real relationship, have you?" she asked softly.

Suddenly he felt the urge to walk the twenty miles back to Stars Hollow, if it meant any and all avoidance of such conversations. He knew he was supposed to get all deep, open up and cry about his home life and general solitude, but sucking it up was more than a motto in his house.

"Define relationship," he shrugged.

"This is different," she urged. "For both of us, it's okay that you didn't know how to approach me," her hand on his arm was at once comforting and uncomfortable. The urge to let her comfort him made his eyes sting. "Clearly I don't always know what to do around you."

"I guess," he said quietly. "Come on, let's get you home."

"Tristan," her eyes widened as he truly began to pull away. "We have time."

"I promised to join Grandfather on a walk in the morning, I have a lot of driving ahead of me tonight," he began to push back, pull away.

He saw the disappointment in her eyes as his actions washed over her. "Yeah, right. Let's go," she nodded.

XXXX

She used silence as a weapon. She'd given him every opportunity to talk, or show any vulnerability, and he'd declined. Ironically, she was giving him what he asked for. He looked over at her as she gazed out the window, bottom lip between her teeth and content to give him a healthy dose of his own medicine.

For someone that was too nice, he had to admit she had her moments.

He was about to form these very words, tired of the cold shoulder routine, when he noticed that his steering seemed oddly guided. A strange pull on the passenger side grew into an odd bumping sensation. He pulled off to the side of the field-lined road slowly, not in the mood for late-night car repair. He didn't look to see the haughty self-indignance she was no doubt shooting him.

"Relax," he said before slipping out of the car and slamming the door behind him, leaving her to the sound of only her own breath. And, he hoped, the sound of her pounding heart.

He could see the nail sticking sadly out of the sidewall, the apparent cause of the deformed tire. He rocked back onto his hind foot and kicked the defective tire with the other. In the next second he was rummaging around in the trunk, pulling out the necessary items with which to repair the damage.

The dome light kicked on as he opened the passenger side door, bathing her in the yellowy light. He tossed a flashlight into her lap, which she stared at it in a startled state rather than picking it up in a useful capacity.

"It's just a flashlight," he sighed.

"I know what it is," she quipped back. "What's wrong with the car?"

"Flat. I need you to shine a light on the tire while I fix it."

He could see the amusement spread over her face slowly in realization. First her eyes lit up, nearly dancing in their sockets, then the smooth line of her lips began to upturn. Clearly the very idea pleased her to no end.

"You're going to fix the flat tire?"

His eyes narrowed. It figured that now she would have plenty to say. "Unless you would like to walk from here."

"Do you know how to fix a flat tire?"

"So, you do want to walk from here?" he gauged.

"I have AAA," she offered. "One quick call," she held up her cell phone as if he might suddenly react like a dog to a Milk Bone.

"Just get out of the car and point the flashlight toward the wheel," he said as he stepped away from the door, no longer peering down at her in the bucket seat. Not offering her a hand up, acting as if she were a compliant woman.

She was only defiant with him. He'd seen her be demure and acquiescent in school, to her family, basically to any and every authority figure she'd come in contact with. Her message that he had no authority over her could give him a concussion; she banged him in the head with it so hard.

Her footsteps against the pavement came, if not immediately. He heard a soft huff as her breath left her mouth, and the soft click of the flashlight coming on. He made the mistake of turning around to look at her, only to get a beam of light directly into his pupils.

"The wheel, not my face," he gruffed.

"I'm sorry—you like being in the spotlight, so you see my confusion," she redirected the light immediately.

"What exactly is your problem?" he stopped cranking the jack for a moment to twist on one foot to look back at her, thankfully not bathed in the bright light.

"My problem is you have to be macho and fix this yourself, when I could just call AAA and have the whole thing done," she began.

He took off his t-shirt and cut her off. "I can have this thing done before AAA figures out which back road that isn't on the map we're on," he said, tossing his shirt at her.

"Oh, I get it," she rolled her eyes. He couldn't see her actually do it, in the shadow of the bright light, but he could hear it in her voice.

"Get what?"

"Any excuse to take your shirt off," the light moved as she shifted her weight to the other foot.

"It's hot, and I really don't want to get grease all over it," he sighed, going back to fully extending the jack.

"Well, if that's the case, you don't want to risk getting any grease on your pants either," she deadpanned.

Grabbing hold of the lug wrench, he smirked at her. "Later, Mary. I'm kinda busy right now."

He heard her mumble something about his being a pig, then he heard the tell-tale signs of the numbers of a cell phone being dialed. He stopped his movements and brushed his hands off while he stood up in front of her.

"So far, what have I done to prove that I can't get this very basic job done?"

She clicked the flashlight off, leaving them only the moonlight to see by. "I'm calling my mom," she said nonchalantly. "I'm guessing your macho super powers don't include having the tire fixed and me home within the next five minutes," she tossed his shirt into the car through the open window.

"Whatever. Just turn the flashlight back on," he muttered as he moved back to the trunk to extract the spare tire. He heard her upbeat tone as her mother picked up the line.

"No, I'm fine. … Out on Route 12. … God, no! … Well, if you really wanted to know, I guess," she hedged. "Flat tire. … Yes, I suppose it is more convincing than having run out of gas," a sigh escaped her, and he had to smile at her mother's reasoning. "Hang on," she instructed.

"Hey, how much longer you gonna be at this?" Rory's displeased tone indicated he was being spoken to.

"That depends. I tend to slow down when you contradict each and every single thing I do, all that defending the right way of doing things tends to take a lot out of me," he began, but she shined the light interrogation-style in his eyes again. "Damn!" he swore loudly.

"Sorry, Mom," Rory apologized, for having let her hear his expletive. "How long does it take to change a tire? … No, I don't suppose you would know, but Max is there, right? … So, ask him. … Well, I did, but he doesn't seem to like to give me direct answers…. Right. … Ew! God, I'll be home as soon as I possibly can, okay? Good_bye_," she uttered and tossed the phone as if it were a bomb into the car, probably nestling right on top of his still-clean shirt.

"Your mom sending AAA?" he mused.

"Can you just hurry up?"

He just shook his head and put the tire in place in silence. By the time he got done, he threw the punctured tire in the trunk and held his hand out for the flashlight. She clicked it off and offered it up.

"You're quiet," she commented.

"I thought giving the cold shoulder was the theme for tonight," he quipped.

She let out a groan of exasperation and turned right around and began walking through the field that lay just off to the side of the road. Hating that he not only had to follow her, but wanted to, he let out the same groan and jogged to catch up with her lead.

"Rory!" he called out, hoping she would slow her pace. No such luck. "Stop," he called. Nothing but reticence. "Please?"

Now she stopped. Kill her with kindness. Everyone had an angle. Hers was just one he wasn't accustomed to.

"What?" mistrust filled her voice. This he was used to.

"Well, at least you're talking to me, that's a start," he said truthfully.

"You mean like I tried to do earlier, when you shut down and made me feel completely unworthy to talk to? Or am I supposed to accept that you're only going to talk when and about whatever you choose?"

Her anger had been ignited, for the whateverth time this evening. He found it tiring to count.

"You act like you had no idea what you were getting into here," he lashed back.

"Excuse me, not all of us suffer from delusions of grandeur. All I thought was you and I were going to try to date. And people that date are capable of having exchanges and being even the slightest bit vulnerable to one another," she informed.

"Think back, Mary," he stepped up to put his hands on her bare shoulders. The moment he saw her this evening, he'd wanted to tell her how the outfit complimented her—outlining every curve and leaving just enough for his imagination to play with, enough for his memory to fill in the gaps—but then she'd asked how long they had to stay at the party. Instant detachment.

"You said you wanted me to make you feel like this, you wanted to know if what you heard about me was true," he continued, only stepping closer into her personal space, willing her to remember those early days in his car; her first admission of curiosity as the sweetness of cloves lingered on her lips, and later the way she licked her lips when he told her what he woulddo tomake her mewl.

"I did! I do!" came her flustered response.

"You can't have it both ways," he took the skin that covered her collarbone first into his lips, then with his teeth. She shuddered underneath him.

"I don't believe you."

No. He hadn't come to expect anything else from her.

"There's nothing to believe," he soothed the skin with his tongue before kissing up her jaw line. He looked her in the eyes.

"That's not true," her voice wavered. She just wanted him to say he'd try. She'd believe enough for the both of them, and the thought nagged at him.

"If this isn't what you wanted," his hand snaked up under her top, his fingers adept and capable of convincing her.

"Tristan," her hands were now against his stomach, still uncovered in his haste of following her. He could tell she was on the verge of tears. He'd seen her hold up against the toughest of situations, but now her defenses were stripped.

"I promised to show you what the hype was all about, that's it," he breathed.

"You promised so much more than that," she sniffed. "I've seen you with other girls, Tristan. You never looked at any of them the way you look at me, you never looked out for them like you do for me, you--," she cut off, too incensed or emotional to speak. It was impossible to decipher at this moment.

"Hey, calm down," he soothed, pulling her in, not letting her push away.

"You don't just promise with words, Tristan!" she burst out. "You promise with actions and the things you do for someone even when they don't see you doing it! You promise every time you show up to take me home, every time you do something pigheaded and macho that I don't agree with, but you think is for my own good! You go through the trouble of doing all this, then you won't do something as simple as let me into your head, to tell me all the stuff that pisses you off," she ranted.

"I'm not putting any of that on you. I don't need anyone to worry about me."

"Too late," she said, leaning up to kiss him for once, not letting him take the lead. His arms wrapped around her back, cradling her gently, letting her lead them back and down, as her knees buckled enough to let them lay in the field of tallish grass.

"I'm not asking for everything at once," she whispered in his ear. "Just on a need-to-know basis," she urged.

He answered her as she'd explained—without words. He knew she was asking him for the impossible, but at the moment, with her in his arms, it didn't seem insurmountable. His lips met hers sweetly, his body covering hers from the stars that shone overhead—their only onlookers.

He had no interest in grace; it was the sparks of her inevitable combustion that drew him in.


	4. Playing In The Big Leagues

Title: Slipping Under The Surface

Chapter: 4—Playing In the Big Leagues

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I don't own anything buy my laptop, and trust me, you don't want this laptop…

Description: Sequel to Untouched… Another Trory… It starts out M because Untouched was M…

Self-control was categorized as sport to him.

She'd been trained in this mindset as a child, but only in the form of playing 'Quiet As A Mouse' with her mother. Looking back it was more than apparent that her mother had been masking the effects of a hangover—the hands over her ears, her squinty, red eyes, her throaty, barely there voice—but mainly because Lorelai still used the same tactics now that her daughter was of age to understand (if not partake legally) such methods of self-gratifying punishment.

Her mother had always been, above all, honest with her. Life lessons in their house were learned the hard way, but generally fell into learning the proper time and place to let out all the facets of their personalities. For example, should her angelic ten-year-old daughter decide to don a feather boa, her 'Like a Virgin—Not!' t-shirt that wore as a dress, and her still two sizes too big high heels while eating a whole bag of marshmallows and trying to learn the latest pop band's dance moves, all Lorelai expressed was the necessity that it wait until they were out of the Elder Gilmore home and back in their own.

Similarly, if Rory wanted to spend a day at the club, playing golf and gossiping about who was giving the pool boy an extra bonus while detoxifying her skin, all she needed to do was hide the knives from her mother while she called her grandmother to arrange it.

It was a simple reminder that it wasn't about moderation, just waiting for the right moment.

As she sat in her boyfriend's now basically parked car, she couldn't pinpoint a good or proper way to say goodnight to him. Not that she ever particularly liked watching his car disappear off her street or the aching feeling in her stomach as his lips met hers in even the most daring of their goodnight kisses. Being left in need of his touch, she'd decided was worse than being without even the most basic of needs. Though sitting in his car, his hand on her thigh as they watched her mother make out with their English teacher and knowing that their time to have to say good night was inevitable was ranking right up there.

"Were we supposed to take a number out of your mailbox or something? Or are we just supposed to tag team it and slap their hands when they're done?"

"Actually, once they pry themselves apart, we'll be lucky if Mom doesn't notice that I didn't beat her home, sending you far, far away without laying a hand on me all evening."

She heard his noise of disapproval as his hand slid further up toward her lap. "Surely she doesn't think setting that kind of example will help you keep my hands off of you."

"I'm Lorelai version 2.0. She knows I can do whatever I set my mind to."

"Well, it's a good thing your mind is set to me," his lips brushed her neck, which she'd left exposed thanks to barrette and perhaps a desire to have such an effect on him.

"Oooh, hang on," she said, putting a finger to his lips and thus causing his forehead to wrinkle as a disapproving frown transformed his face.

"Rory," he nudged her with his nose, his voice bordering on not-so-playful in manner.

"Now they're just talking! Seriously, can't you just," she cut off the rant that was clearly intended for her mother mid-sentence as the front door was opened by her mother and shut behind her teacher's back.

"Rory?" Now his voice was full of concern. Very few things were able to cut her off mid-thought once she truly got going. She was sure he prided himself for possessing most of them. And while distraction was powerful, true shock did it every time.

"Yeah?" she blinked, sure that if she refocused her eyes, she'd see Max descending the front steps instead of empty porch space. She could feel Tristan's eyes on her, and she turned her head to look at him after a long moment of shock-induced blinking.

"What's wrong?" he inquired.

"Nothing," she lied. "We should probably just say goodnight," she moved to unlock her car door.

"One second you were annoyed that they were taking too long, the next you were completely weirded out by seeing him go into your house."

"Haven't you ever heard of a woman's prerogative?" she sighed.

"They're engaged, Rory," his hand was still and soft against her leg, though his tone bordered on patronizing.

"I know that," she brought her shoulders up, partially working out tension and partially wishing her head might sink into her body.

"That means they're gonna get married, and on the off chance they haven't already, they'll be sharing a bed and living in the same house."

"Thanks for the run-down, I got it," she grew weary of his insistence in speaking about what was soon to change (and already changing, evidently) in her life.

"Hey," he squeezed his hand against her, and she realized how easy it could be to just close her eyes and feel his reassurance. Her head leaned into his so easily, and the warm heat of his lips met hers before she could feel the soft pressure meeting her halfway.

She trailed her fingernails down his jaw, his neck, over his shirt…. She took a deep breath when his lips momentarily left hers in search of air that hadn't been filtered through her lungs. "Is this your way of saying you want to get out of here?" his words reverberated on her skin.

Temptation wasn't an idea, it was a chemical reaction.

"I should face… whatever it is that's going on in there," she said after nearly a full thirty seconds of inner turmoil and with a minimum of desire.

"Walk you to the door?"

She couldn't see his eyes, but his voice in her ear made her shudder as if he was looking right into her. She nodded against him, her cheek brushing his to give him his answer.

XXXX

His hands could make her forget a lot of things. When they touched her face, she forgot to breathe, when they slipped under her shirt, she forgot how to move; and when they delved down south, she forgot her name, remembering only his.

But she was finding it difficult to forget the fact that the porch light had flickered four times since their feet had halted—hers on the main porch as he stood on the second to the last step, allowing her to be eye-to-eye with him as they made their best attempts in leaving the other with a lasting impression.

"That's subtle," Tristan murmured against her lips, on the fifth such occurrence.

"Well, I'd go in and tell them to stop, but then I'd be in for the night," she kissed him back lightly. "Your choice."

"We can't let them win, can we?" he joked, pulling her tighter against his torso.

"Never," she deadpanned, sighing as his mouth opened against hers.

Her shivers from lust turned to those of fright as the front door creaked open. She'd never noticed its ability to sound so haunted house-like, but she spun half around in her boyfriend's arms, which served only to tighten around her in comfort.

"Oh, sorry. I thought I heard a noise out here," Max smiled at his pupils-turned-late night charges. "It's getting late."

Rory nodded. "Yes, it is."

"Tristan has a long drive ahead of him, I assume?"

Rory looked to her side as Tristan finished climbing the last two steps now, his arm moving from being securely wrapped around her waist to now around her shoulders.

"I just had some coffee, so I'm all set."

She held in the giggle at his retort—he never drank coffee, save for the remnants he claimed he consumed off of her lips. If his altered math was right, he'd had perhaps a tablespoon's worth tonight, as she's only had about two cups after dinner.

"Well, I guess I'll just head back in, since the noise was just the two of you, and you know it's late," he summarized.

"Okay," Rory nodded, torn between wanting him to take his leave and not wanting him to disappear back into her house like he lived there. He didn't even have keys yet. The thought must have made her tense up, as she felt Tristan's hand attempting to soothe her strained shoulder muscles.

"Hey, what's going on?" her mother's amused voice filled the air now.

Rory looked to her mother, in the exasperated, handle-this manner that she knew would be so effortless for Lorelai not only to pick up on, but to pull off. She'd seen the way men reacted to her mother's gentle (or sometimes beating-over-the-head strength) nudging.

"He heard a noise," Tristan offered, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in his voice. Rory lowered her eyes at that, not wanting to see them disapprove of his snide remark.

"Oh-kay," Lorelai said. "But now that you've done such a job protecting me from intruders, you could come and really save me?" she raised her eyebrows at him in hope.

"Spider to be killed?" he asked.

"Peanut butter jar lid won't budge!" she said in desperation.

"Okay," he conceded. "Goodnight," he offered to the kids.

"Night," Rory spoke up loudly, in case Tristan's annoyance would rear its head again. Once the door was shut behind the adults, she shook her head, turning to face him once again. She looked into his eyes, willing him to touch her again, making her forget the interruption.

"I'm starting to think your mother doesn't hate me," he mused, to her surprise.

"I told you, all it would really take was her seeing you make me very happy," she said, relief filling her as his arms wound back around her, feeling the soft tugs as his fingers went back to playing with the fabric of her shirt.

"Well, then, if it'll make your mother like me," his lips upturned even as he bent his head down slightly, causing her to crane up on the tips of toes to continue on in their nightly ritual.

XXXX

"I see no peanut butter," Max turned to look at his bride-to-be as he reached the kitchen table. He put his hands back on the top to brace himself. "Is this going to be some kinky, food fantasy we're embarking on?"

"No," she said quickly before really ingesting what he was saying. "Though the idea might be worth a revisit later on," she smiled knowingly. "This is about the moment that I realized that you weren't in the bathroom upstairs, and I found you laying down some sort of law in my house."

"Technically, I wasn't in your house," he interrupted.

"Fine, then laying down the law on my porch. But that hardly has the same ring to it," she wrinkled her nose.

"So, tell me, what are the rules, if letting your daughter be outside with her boyfriend all hours of the night isn't one of them?" he asked, exasperated.

"Come on, Max, you make it sound like I've got my very own _Girls Gone Wild_ camera on my front porch, and I'm letting Tristan interview my kid for her shot," she rolled her eyes.

"I'm not saying that. I'm just wondering what I'm supposed to do when I notice things like this, and say, you're not here."

"You want to know what happens when I'm not here? Rory tends to do laundry and order from the one restaurant I won't even drive past for fear the smell," she shuddered. "My daughter is only rebellious in letting her true anal-retentive side come out and filling my house with the smell of curry," she upturned her hands in the air.

"That was before," Max urged.

"Before what? You?" she plied.

"Well, yes, technically, but I'm talking about him!"

"Him? Tristan? Oh, Max, come on. They're kissing! Teenagers are allowed to kiss," she said, willing her mind not to harken back to the scene at her parents' house. Surely after that near disaster, Rory's good sense had been snapped back in place like a rubber band. She told herself that if she'd had any near misses like that when she was sixteen and not left completely alone for weeks on end with Christopher, perhaps she'd have saved herself from what Max was seemingly afraid of.

"I'm not worried about their kissing, Lorelai. I've seen how much even supervision seems to roll right off this kid's back. I know you like to think you know your daughter better than anyone in the world, but you don't know him. Not like I do. I've spend the last couple of years around not only him, but them," he ranted.

"Meaning what?" she cried out.

"Meaning, no matter how good of a kid Rory is, and I do think she is truly one of the best kids I have ever come into contact with, when paired with him, I can't bring myself to sit back and trust that they're using their best judgment."

Lorelai was more than taken aback. "So, what, they're running around Chilton like Bonnie and Clyde, and you've just failed to mention it to me until now?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying."

"Is Rory in some kind of trouble? Are her grades slipping, is she acting out in class?"

"No," he sighed, defeated. "It's much more of a subtle change than that."

Lorelai pulled out a chair and motioned for him to do the same as she put two mugs on the table. Her automatic habit of making coffee was going to come in handy this evening, she knew, even as somewhere in the back of her mind she heard a nagging voice reminding her that her daughter still hadn't come in from her date.

"Look, Max," she began diplomatically.

"Just, let me get this out? Even if you seem to think it's not my place," he shook his head.

"I'm not saying that," she urged.

"I still think you should understand the gravity of what is going on. Rory is a great student. Though she tends to be shy and reserved in some circumstances, she's always excelled. She's the kind of student that a teacher hopes for, and also that they like to pair with another kind of student. A student that has unlimited capacity and, shall I say, a problem with authority?"

"So, I can sue Chilton if my kid ends up pregnant, because you saw it in your infinite wisdom to throw them together?"

"A student like Rory is good for someone like Tristan. She has this ability to draw him out in a context of rules and regulations."

"Okay," she shook her head, starting to feel like the other shoe was dangling above her head.

"But the flipside is, especially with them, he seems to have the ability to draw her out as well. In a more, unencumbered manner."

"Look, I've talked to Rory about all of this," she rubbed her temples.

"They're explosive, Lorelai. If you put them in a debate, the entire class is captivated. During lunch, a crowd draws. Before they started dating, their ability to get under each other's skin was a point of discussion in the teachers' lounge. They are each other's polar opposite, which is bad enough," he took a breath, as he could see his point start to register on her face. "But they're also a perfect match. A lit one."

"And now that they're together?" she barely was able to speak.

"More of the same. The fights tend to be louder, seemingly less hypothetical in nature. Instead of making up and being somewhat overly cognizant of the other's presence, they tend to disappear in-between class periods."

She closed her eyes. Blue blazers and plaid skirts blurred with crimson ones in her mind, as she could see her own arm pulling or being pulled into a janitorial closet by her very first true love. Telling herself that Rory was too young for this wouldn't work, nor would ignoring it.

"I'll handle it," she said simply.

"But what about me?" he asked, feeling still left out of the equation.

She didn't answer his question, as all she could do was race to the front door. Her daughter looked so contented in the split second before she heard the door open—wrapped up in the arms of this man. Her face soft as she rested her head against his chest, and his head nestled on top of hers. As if he was shielding her from the rest of the world.

Just what she wanted to do.

"Okay, play time's over," she announced, hopefully hiding the regret she felt.

Rory's eyes came up to meet her mom's, not understanding the shift in her urgency.

"It's not a school night," she began.

"No, but we have a ton of things to get done tomorrow, and for that you need a long, restful, good night's sleep. I suggest that once you go to bed, no one interrupt it for anything, including any late night imps running around convincing girl's that they're dreaming," she said pointedly as she looked at the boy that still maintained contact with her daughter. "Are we clear?"

Both teens nodded, as Lorelai held the door open for her daughter. Rory leaned up to give him a parting hug, as if the past twenty minutes were only the bat of an eyelash.

"Night," she said.

"'Til it be morrow," he whispered back, barely audible. "Leave your window open."

She blushed as his lips barely grazed hers, and she moved to stand next to her mother. He smiled cordially at the women, and then he was gone. Rory turned to her mother, now feeling quite justified in her disbelief.

"What is wrong with you?"

"Just because you're home by curfew never meant you could linger outside doing God-knows-what with a guy that I caught you doing things with that gave me a gray hair, just the other night!"

"You've never said a word before," she bit her lip before she could say his name.

"This isn't his doing," Lorelai looked down.

"Since when does he spend the night, anyhow?" Rory shot back.

"Hey! He's my fiancé," she held up her left hand. "You were the one that was so excited for me to say yes," she reminded. "You were behind this until it started encroaching on your make-out time."

"I have been supporting you because you seemed to be happy," Rory corrected. "Which I guess isn't reason enough for you to like Tristan," she took a shot.

"Hey, if you two would give me the chance to get to know him, maybe I'd like him. But so far, all I've seen is the fact that he likes to touch you, and frankly, that doesn't leave me with such a warm and fuzzy feeling on the inside when his name is brought up."

"You have always trusted me! Always! So just because someone else is coming in and questioning that, you're gonna stop?"

"That is not what is going on here," Lorelai squeezed her eyes shut.

"Are we seriously fighting about Tristan, or Max?" Rory demanded.

"You tell me," she said, in a much softer tone.

"Neither. I'm going to bed."

"Rory," she called out.

"Good night," she said, slamming the door behind her, feeling suddenly more alone than ever. Her head hurt from the yelling—which no doubt Max had heard. Hell, Tristan probably heard it in his car, with his stereo blasting as he cruised down the interstate halfway between Stars Hollow and Hartford. Thinking of him and his last parting words, she moved to open her window silently and hoped that he was true to his words.

XXXX

Her eyes stung; tight and dried out from having cried before falling asleep. She could have sworn she hadn't slept a moment, except for the fact that the last thing she recalled was bleary red numbers reading 11:30 PM on her bedside clock as hot streams ran down her face, and now the numbers 1:35 AM shone out, casting a reddish glow over the arm that was wrapped around her torso.

She wanted to roll over to kiss him, to thank him for keeping his word and being here for her, whether he knew she needed him or not, but the thought of never finding this comfortable a position again overtook her. She merely brought his hand up to her lips and pressed his palm into her face.

"You're awake."

His voice should have startled her, but her only reaction was to snuggle back into his body.

"You sleep like the undead," his lips brushed her scalp as he spoke. She wondered if these were the reasons her mother had allowed Max to sleep over without even a mention to her. She'd probably longed for this kind of intimacy, this kind of reassurance. One she could never find by herself or by being the one that problems were constantly being brought to, never solved for. Even in her own comfort, she couldn't find forgiveness right now.

"I was exhausted," she admitted.

"Which is why I didn't wake you," he said, letting his hand turn her hip back toward him, unlocking their bodies. "That and you looked pretty cute all curled up with your pillow."

She rubbed her eyes with one fist. "Did you just call me cute?"

"I'm in no mood to hear about my Neanderthalic tendencies," he mused as he kissed her. It wasn't the kiss she'd guessed he'd come to claim—it was soft, tender, like the blink of an eye.

"Why'd you come?" she asked, realizing suddenly that she hadn't even changed clothes before falling asleep. She'd been able to smell his cologne on her clothes before she fell asleep, which is probably one of the reasons she hadn't so much as stirred when he wrapped his body around hers.

"Things here, they seemed, tense," he supplied. "Not that I'm not used to that, but the vibe here is usually different from one I'm used to. You didn't look like you wanted me to go."

"But you did," she managed.

"I just parked down the block. I wasn't far."

"Oh," she said, her yawn covering up her surprise. She let her body fall back down into the pillow, into him.

"Did you fight?" he asked.

"Mmmm," she nodded, wishing for the sleep she thought they'd shared to capture them both. If he'd not gone home, surely he had to be at least starting to feel the effects of night wash over him.

"Rory," he tilted her head with just a finger. "Is it about what happened at your grandparents?"

Her eyes opened at the guilt in his voice. "Sort of. She seems to think I don't have the ability to say no to you."

"You want me to tell her how much you like to tell me no?" he smirked. "Because if ever there were two people that had opposing points of view," he joked.

"I told her she had to trust me," she cut off his jest.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I'm not going to lie to her," she looked at him, despite her desire to look away. To look anywhere but into the eyes of the one person that could destroy her and save her. All at once.

"I sense a but coming on," he pried.

"But we're teetering on this line, Tristan. I can't keep up between waiting for her to be ready to be okay with this, and being with you, feeling how I do, feeling you," she shifted her hips in such a way that she pressed into his obvious state of arousal.

"You can't let other people make up your mind for you, Rory. Whether it's me, or your mom, or your grandparents."

He wasn't quite catching her meaning, and she willed the words to make it clear to come to her. She propped her head up away from his body, letting it rest on her hand.

"Did you ever get so excited about something when you were little, that you couldn't sleep the night before?" she changed tactics, and to his credit, he rolled with her tangent.

"You mean like Christmas?" his hand rolled up one bare arm lazily.

"Everyone gets excited about Christmas. I mean something unique, something that you knew would be a once in a lifetime occurrence, beyond your wildest dreams—so much so that you stayed awake rather than letting your mind go on trying to conjure up what it'll really be like?"

He frowned, in his attempts to grasp hold of an example. "What are you afraid of, exactly?"

"I think about it all the time, Tristan. I lay in bed at night, thinking that it could happen the very next day, especially after you said you can't plan it," she bit her lip.

"You want a plan?" he surmised.

"I don't know, maybe," she closed her eyes, "I just feel like I want to be prepared a little. And if I can't talk to Mom, I'm just going to drive myself crazy," she whimpered.

He didn't say anything to her; he just kissed her, in the way she'd expected to feel when he whispered that he'd be over despite receiving the angry mother routine. Perhaps he was trying to drive her crazy, to prove a point of his own. All she knew was that if he kept kissing her like that, her muffled cries would be responded to with all haste.

"Stop," she pulled back in the small bed, finding nowhere else to be but on top of him.

"You can't think about this," he murmured, coming back for more.

"They might hear," she mustered determination to keep him from making another attempt at riling her. His soft assurances were one thing tonight, but with her defense so low, she couldn't risk her evasive tactics not holding up.

"They're up there doing the same thing," he assured her. "Probably trying to be just as quiet so you don't hear them. They won't come down," he said a second time, this time nearly convincing her.

It was only as her mouth was covered by his that she pushed him back again. "I'm sorry, I just," she sighed.

"Seriously, the only real danger you could be in is that since they're doing this same thing as we are at the exact same moment, that you'll pull a Freaky Friday and end up engaged to your English teacher," he mused, already starting to laugh softly. "And just so you know, that only happens in the movies," he kissed her playfully.

"Shut up," she gave up, pulling him in close, letting him hit her with all the tenacity that he had with him. She melted under him, twisting to get closer, using her teeth to scrape his bottom lip as she tasted him.

"Lorelai?" he asked, looking at her quizzically as her desperation broke the affection barrier.

"What?" she breathed, somewhat bewildered.

"Just checking," he moved back against her, knocking the temperature up in the room. They'd kicked off her sheets, the thin ones that she barely needed as summer approached anyhow. She struggled to slip out of her shirt, hating the barrier, letting the desire to feel only his skin on hers overtake her.

"I should go," he said, as his fingers rested on the button of her jeans.

"Now?" her eyes accused.

"Am I wrong?" he asked simply.

"Yes," she lied.

"You're upset, and you won't tell me why," he began. "But more than that, even though you think you're ready for this," he kissed her again, nearly scalding her with heat, "you're not. It's not me or timing you have to trust," he pulled her shirt back down over her stomach, where it'd ridden up in both of their efforts to move it out of the way.

"Then what do I have to trust?"

"Yourself."

The ball was in her court, and she didn't even know the rules.


	5. What Hurts The Most

Title: Slipping Under The Surface

Chapter: 5—What Hurts the Most

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I don't own anything buy my laptop, and trust me, you don't want this laptop…

Description: Sequel to Untouched… Another Trory… It starts out M because Untouched was M…

* * *

She was never very good at sharing.

As polite and downright good-spirited as she was—her small-town ethics painfully transparent during nearly all waking hours unless rudely awoken—he could watch as she skillfully avoided having to let someone near.

Her tastes were eclectic and out in left field for the most part. She was not influenced by her peers or the latest pop group of the month; she took her cues from true standards and offbeat experts. It was rare that her hand reached for an object at the same time as someone else's. Upon finger-to-finger contact over the object in question, she would slink back and offer to relinquish rights selflessly with a shy smile. Words of please, I insist, and you first filled the air as what appeared to be graciousness overtook her. This wasn't about her generosity; it was her defeat. She'd learned long ago, in incidents she may not even remember, that her privacy was worth more than winning.

He couldn't protect her from these demons that she wouldn't name. He only knew they couldn't be as hellish as his own, and therefore he strained to find the way she would allow him to break his way in, be the one to get where she allowed no one.

His thoughts revolved around her as he sat in the second to the last row of their literature class in this last week before final exams. He knew she hadn't talked to her mother about how much it bugged her to have Mr. Medina spending random nights at their home. In fact, the more he dwelled on it, the more he was sure that he would spit out a comment about it should the instructor chastise him for not paying attention to anything other than the waning profile view of her that he was allotted in this classroom.

But that did not happen. The final bell rang, signaling the end of yet another day of what was the top education to be had in the entire city. He stood up leisurely, as always, his belongings still open on his desk. She turned back to look at him, her books that didn't fit into her backpack neatly stacked in her arms. He gave her a nod, to let her know that he would meet her as per usual after school. She always went to the bus stop; it had become their habit. He knew that she didn't want to take the chance that he would forget her. She was self-sufficient and clearly delusional if she believed that he was capable of forgetting her.

She didn't belong with that which he had to repress.

"Mr. Dugrey," came the still official sound of Mr. Medina's voice.

"Yes, Sir," he played along.

"Can I see you for a moment?"

"Was there a problem with my assignment?" he inquired. He knew there wasn't. If anything, Rory's influence in his life had only boosted his school record. His GPA was higher, and he'd climbed a few notches in the class rank ladder. Not that he cared so much if he fell or rose either way. His choice of college had been determined at birth—not to be helped by his performance. Even a stint in juvie or rehab couldn't alter his choices, all of which were covered in Ivy.

"No, in fact, I must commend you. To say your work is improving is an understatement. I've been quite impressed at the effort you've been exerting."

"So, we're done here?" he asked, his eyebrow raising as his body language transformed into standoffishness.

"Not quite. Have a seat."

"I prefer to stand," he set his now gathered books down on the desk behind him.

Max sat on the corner of his desk. "Fine. I just want to get a few things straight here."

"Is this about Rory?" he asked, knowingly.

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

Tristan didn't budge. "Let's hear it."

"I'd appreciate you taking this seriously," he sighed.

"Take what seriously? That you seem to think I'm a problem in Rory's life? If you want to talk seriously, let's talk about the kind of problem you are in Rory's life."

"I'm not a problem in Rory's life. I am a grown man, who is getting married to her mother. And as someone that is going to be an authority figure in her home, I am concerned about her behavior—especially when she's with you."

"Exactly what have I done?"

"Lorelai has some concerns," Max said judiciously.

"Then she should be the one to talk to me. She's never seemed shy before."

"Making out in cars all hours of the night is plenty of reason for her to be concerned."

"Well, she's never really ever invited me in, so what would she have us do? Get a hotel room?"

"It's that kind of attitude that's the problem, Tristan. Rory isn't like the other girls around here."

"Careful, Mr. Medina. These other girls are your pupils," Tristan taunted.

"I'm well aware of your reputation, Mr. Dugrey," he said with the utmost of professionalism. So much so that he made his very name sound like a threat.

"My reputation has nothing to do with Rory."

"As long as we're clear on that, then we're done here," Max said.

"Rory doesn't need you or her mother to make decisions for her. I want to be with her—and as long as she wants to be with me, then that's the way it's going to be. Would you stop seeing Lorelai just because her parents didn't approve?"

"Lorelai is a grown woman," he dismissed the dig. "Her parents haven't had a say in her life for a long time."

"No, but Rory does. Has either of you really stopped to ask her what she thinks of all this?"

Max looked at him as he gathered his books. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means we're done here. I have somewhere I have to be."

He left his teacher still sitting on the edge of his desk, probably feeling no better than he did as he skipped the stop at his locker and headed straight for his car. Today wasn't going to be the day that he started letting her down.

XXXX

"I thought you weren't coming," she squinted into the sun.

"I got held up. Get in."

"I got used to the idea that I would be taking the bus," she shrugged. "You don't have to take me home every day."

"I realize that. Get in."

"Tristan," she sighed.

"Rory, come on. I'm tired, and I'm frustrated. I want to spend some time with you. Get in."

She smiled at him as he nearly whined. He never whined—and her smile was growing as his frown increased.

"What?"

"Is it too much for a girl to want a guy to beg a little bit?"

Realization washed over him. She was playing with him. She wasn't so distraught over whatever had been on her mind that she wasn't up to being playful. This definitely boded well for him.

"I'm used to the girls doing the begging," he tilted his head. "I've never had to beg anyone to do anything in my life."

She opened the door and tossed her bag at him. "I'm gonna need proof that you're worth begging for. I mean, I know chocolate is worthy of my degrading myself, but how do you measure up in comparison?"

"Guess I'm just gonna have to give you a taste of what you're missing," he played along.

She flashed him a knowing smile, and he wondered how she did it. She'd taken him from frustrated to horny in less than sixty seconds. Hell, less than six seconds, if he were being honest.

"So, what got you so frustrated? Did you get a B on that paper?" she asked.

"That's why you would be frustrated," he reminded her, his hand skimming up under the hem of her skirt teasingly. Not far enough to cause her to smack his hand away, but far enough to make her realize he meant business.

"I didn't get a B," she said with a superior tone.

"Neither did I," he informed.

"So, what is it? And don't say Paris again. She's been practically docile since you railed into her at that party," she still had the decency to sound put off by it, though he knew better. She enjoyed drama-free days, and he didn't want to inject any unnecessary issues for her to deal with into what had obviously been a good one for her so far.

"No, it's not Paris. In fact, it's nothing. Too much testosterone, isn't that what you're so fond of telling me is my main problem is?"

"Hey," she grabbed his hand that rested on her thigh. Her fingers interlaced with his, her slender fingers squeezing against his. "What happened?"

"Medina had me stay after class. It's really not a big deal."

He realized he should have met her eyes when he told her the lie; at least he would have been admitting it in a way. Maybe she would have dropped it even, not wanting to push him further into pain. But she didn't tolerate straight-up lies.

"What did he want?" she asked.

"To tell me my grades are getting better."

"And that's frustrating you?"

"No," he sighed. "I don't care about my grades."

"At all?" she asked, shock filling every bit of her tone.

He looked at her in amusement. Her face was screwed up in a flurry of perplexion. "At all."

"But your grades follow you your entire life," she began. "Forget about a curved scale, it's a mark to which you can measure yourself, not only to grow, but to realize your own strengths and weaknesses," she explained with whole-hearted belief.

"Rory, forget about my grades. My grades are fine," he didn't want to explain why weaknesses weren't an option in his world.

"Then what reason could Medina possibly have for holding you after class?" she asked in exasperation.

"You."

"Me?" she blinked.

"Yes, you. Apparently, I'm your problem."

"My grades are fine," she frowned.

"Rory! He's not afraid you're gonna fail anything but a pregnancy test," he let on.

"But we—we're not," she stammered.

"I don't think he's quite gotten that memo. Your mom is freaked, evidently, and he's taking it out on me."

"What did you say?" she turned her innocent doe eyes on him.

"That as long as you saw fit, we'd be a couple—nothing they do or say will change that."

"Oh," she nodded. "I was going to talk to her, about the idea of you spending more time at the house—in the daylight hours," she bit her lip, unsure as to how he'd take the idea.

"Is this going to cut into our make-out time?" he breathed in through gritted teeth, nearly hissing.

"I'm being serious! I don't know what else to do; besides, it makes me sad to think of you all the time in that big house all by yourself. It's like _The Shining_," she shuddered.

"Only when dear old Dad is home," he sneered.

She caught the disdain that saturated his comment—but he brushed it off. "I'm not actually alone in the house. There's the staff," he supplied.

"You like knocking around in that big, old house?"

"I wouldn't mind knocking around with you in that big, old house," he squeezed the hand that still held his.

She blushed. "I'm serious. I think it might help, our spending some time together that wasn't quite so… intense."

She'd been thinking about his comment that she had to trust herself. He wondered if this was about not trusting herself with him. Being at her house would mean instant chaperones.

He had just pulled onto his street, and he pulled off to the side of the road. "You want me to take you home now? Like us, with books spread out all over your coffee table, studying until our eyes bleed, and I can only imagine with no touching whatsoever?" he asked with distaste.

"More like us, books on the coffee table, pizza, and some touching," she bit her lip.

"Some touching?" he checked.

She nodded. "I'm not going for daughter of the year. I just want Mom to not hate the sight of you."

He sighed. "What about Max?"

"He usually doesn't spend school nights over," she shook her head. "If anything Mom goes into Hartford to have dinner with him."

"That's not what I meant," he turned the ignition off. She fidgeted as the microscope focused in on her. "I meant, I thought you liked him, but you seem to really hate the fact that he spends the night at your house."

"I don't expect you to understand," she said softly, now looking out her window at the lifeless grandeur of his neighbor's mansions.

"Try me, I'm an amazingly good listener."

"Since when?" she swiveled her head to look at him.

"You wound me," he brought a hand to his heart.

"Be serious," she pleaded.

"I am," he said with all sincerity. "Try me."

She let out a sigh—or huff, he couldn't tell. Suddenly she looked like she might come out of her skin, but her mouth opened and words poured out.

"It's just so weird, Mom's pretending that nothing new is going on, but there's this guy that wants to read my sections of the paper, and he takes too long to order at Luke's, and he's always wanting to cook food at home, instead of braving the offerings at Al's or taking bad hotdogs and stale fries to the movie theater and watching Kirk try to change the movie reel without people throwing popcorn at him," she seemed to only be warming up.

"Things have to change a little," he tried.

"Things didn't change when Dad was around," she was on the verge of tears suddenly.

"Wait, your dad?"

"Yes, my dad."

"I didn't think he'd ever really been around," he ventured gingerly—not sure of how much of a sore spot his absence was. He'd certainly never seen any sign of him in the house, not even in old photos that littered every wall and level surface in the Gilmore home.

"He's not, really. It's just, when Mom and Max were broken up, he came out from California, and I don't know. He wanted to be here with us, I know he did, and he stayed a few days, and he was instantly in our rhythm. He fit, you know?"

She wanted his understanding, and he saw instantly that no one had ever done anything but expect her to go with the flow. She was expected to grin and push down the constant disappointment that came along with her life. Dwelling on the constant absence of her father, the constant reminder in her life that proved to her that life doesn't work out for the best, no matter how well behaved you are. Or how much you cried about it.

"Rory, as ideal as it sounds, or may appear to you, having your parents married isn't the cure all for the troubles that life shoots your way."

She blinked back moisture. "They're different," she began. "They know each other so well, it's like they're wired together. They're perfect for each other."

He snorted. "Yeah, well, so are my parents, but that certainly hasn't done me any good."

Her face softened at his implication—she was ready to take it back and hold it in again. Her pain was instigating his own, and she wasn't comfortable with that. But to him, it felt real. Human. Pain begets pain; love begets love.

"What do you mean by that?" she asked when he didn't comment further.

"I meant exactly what I said," he said simply, if not coldly. Talking about his parents left him feeling but one emotion, and it wasn't one he could hide as easily as she did. He looked up into her waiting blue eyes, and somehow words were ripped from his throat. "Just because you're in love doesn't make you a good parent. Being planned for doesn't make you wanted. My parents had one kid and were thankful I was a boy so they could stop. It was expected of them to produce an heir, and that's all I've ever been."

"That's not all you are," her hand was on his cheek.

He could only imagine the look on his face was enough to scare the hell out of her. For a moment he could barely see; he knew his eyes were literally darkening. Surely she could see the mixture of guilt, hate, and love that was slowly swirling around in his blood, circulating through his body and making him dizzy. He reached out for her, to pull her close. He kissed her—not for thrills, but to taste even just the remnants of the words she'd just spoken. His hold on her wasn't for the pleasure of touch, but rather to grasp at the part of her that had retained the goodness that she'd been protecting so dearly all these years.

The things that he had lost.

His intensity didn't cause her to shrink back. Her hands were on his, under his collar, in his hair, anywhere and everywhere that his nerve endings were sizzling were due to her touch. He wondered if all her emotions did this—mixed up like paint to create something altogether new. With every blistering kiss, he felt more and more of her body making certain decisions for her. What she was sure of, what she trusted.

He drew his head back only slightly, his chin just out of reach of her lips. His breath was heavy and uneven, but for a moment as he looked into her eyes it stopped altogether.

"Rory," he stroked her cheek with two fingers.

"Let's go inside."

"You wanted me to take you home," he reminded.

She didn't say anything for the longest moment. Her hand came up to cover his fingers, wrapping around them and pulling them down between their bodies.

"We're here now," she said finally. "We don't have to talk anymore—not right now," she looked down momentarily, he was unsure as to what at, though the way her hand rested so dangerously close to his increasing need for her…. He followed her eyes, knowing she wasn't finished. "Unless, you know, you like that kind of thing."

She was being coy, playful, knowing she was reaching out to him far more in that way than by going the sentimental, deep-seated emotion route. He laughed, not nervously, but certainly in taken aback amusement.

"I think you'd like that kind of thing," he whispered into her ear.

"Let's go find out," she bit her lip. No longer did she look nervous or unsure; she was sexy and provocative. Daring him, almost, to do the same thing to her.

She was done talking, perhaps wanting to feel what it was like for once, to be part of two people that allowed themselves the luxury of being perfect counterparts. He was happy to oblige for once, because he didn't have to doubt her motives or readiness.

He had no choice in the most private of moments but to give himself freely to her.


	6. Getting A Fix

Title: Slipping Under The Surface

Chapter: 6—Getting A Fix

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I don't own anything buy my laptop, and trust me, you don't want this laptop…

Description: Sequel to Untouched… Another Trory… It starts out M because Untouched was M…

He was an adrenaline junkie.

Being on the edge of fear and certainty had never appealed to her. Why should she place herself in danger of losing her grip, with her hand barely able to clutch a shaky handhold to safety as she remained unsure as to which option was more appealing, when there were clear-cut options of having solid ground under her feet or the thrill of the wind in her hair as she free fell down into oblivion?

It was as if he was constantly testing his surroundings—an exercise in baiting fate and taxing faith. How fast could he drive without losing control of his car? How long could he linger with her in the west boys' bathroom before an innocent bystander opened the door to reveal them in flagrante delicto; how long could he keep his troubles to himself before she began not to care?

The edge was his home turf. It was where he was at his best, able to twist words spoken by others to his advantage, able to prolong both pleasure and pain. Best of all, it was where most people dared not linger, leaving him alone.

To say it didn't fray her nerves, to meet him where he stood, wouldn't be honest. Knowing that the feel of hardwood beneath her tailbone would be the prudent thing didn't stop her from letting cold tile meet her back, the only cushion provided by his hands weaved in the back of her hair.

"We're gonna be late," she breathed hard, as she always did when his teeth caught the skin just above the collar of her slightly unbuttoned shirt.

"Fuck it," he said, using his dirty mouth to kiss her before she could protest both the idea and language he used to convey the message.

"We have to go," she tugged on his elbows, attempting to untangle his fingers from her hair.

He abided her request, taking her hand down with his, resting it over the area in which all his desire had pooled. In this last stall of a boys' restroom, she gasped.

"I have a better idea."

The warning bell rang, shaking the looser of the metal walls that partitioned off each toilet. If she teetered much longer, she'd lose her balance.

"You want to take me here, now?" she asked, her tone growing serious. She knew only one way to get him to see reason. She had to call his bluff and pray that he really was just bluffing.

"More than anything," he growled into her ear, his head dipping low, his hands following suit to solicit a temperature increase from her core.

"You want to bend me over the toilet, have a fast fuck, then use your fake hall pass to get into class in time for the pop quiz on Byron?"

"Rory," he pulled back at her words.

"I'm sure Medina wouldn't mention the fact that we were both fifteen minutes late, with askew clothes and flushed cheeks."

"It's your ears," he traced his finger over the tops of the delicate shell.

"What?" she asked, now the one taken aback.

"When you're aroused—the tips of your ears burn," he began. "And your eyes; your pupils dilate until they're just these big, black holes that I get sucked into," he said softly.

"Is that a no?"

"The answer to the question of wanting to fuck you is always yes," he answered honestly. "But I think I can arrange something a bit more upscale than a toilet over which to bend you," he winked. "And you're right, about Medina. I'm sure your mother gets the updated list every evening."

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing. You get to class. I'm not going."

"Tristan," she shook her head. "You have to."

"No, you have to. You're the one he cares about, in fact, I bet the fact that he doesn't have to see me stare at you in want for fifty minutes will only be a relief to him."

"He's your teacher. He cares if you're in class or not."

He had the audacity to look amused at her words. She wondered just how heavy of a conversation they'd had the prior afternoon—however it had gone down, it was enough to make him want to hide out for a while.

"It'd be your third unexcused absence. You'll get detention."

"I'm touched, you're keeping track," he teased.

"How bad was it?" she asked, not having time to follow his misleading jokes around until he revealed his underlying issue.

"If it means that much to you, I'll go too," he said, moving to grab her books off the back of tank.

"So, you're just never going to tell me?"

He looked at her now. "I told you. He thinks I'm no good for you."

She shrugged. "Have you run across anyone who thinks that we're a good idea?"

He nodded. "Me."

She smiled at his words. "Well, then, that's good enough for me. Now, let's go to class," she took her books from him and moved to open the stall. "You coming?"

He hesitated, his mouth open as if there were something more he wanted to say. She waited patiently, but she could feel the tug of threatening tardiness making her foot tap.

"You're not coming," she nodded.

He stepped forward to kiss her cheek. "We're still on for after school?"

She nodded quickly and took off at a full sprint, hoping that she could slide into her seat with a nanosecond's time to spare. There were no kids left in the hall—she began to wonder if in her deep concentration on solely him she'd totally ignored the sound of her own doom. But as she tried to silence her panting and still her chest that heaved around her wildly racing heart and her books were still toppled on top of one another instead of the way she would normally have them cracked open, ready to absorb the day's lesson, she felt ultimate relief wash over her as the last bell sounded and her teacher had no choice but to hold his tongue, despite knowing just where and with whom she'd been with to delay her normally prepared demeanor.

XXXX

"Five more days," he opened her door, not for the show of the multitudes of eyes that spied on them as soon as they crossed into the city limits, but out of habit. She was too busy trying to heave her book bag up over the armrest from its place on his backseat.

"All of which involve final exams," she reminded, her tone full of dread. "How is it possible that you didn't bring one book home?"

"If I haven't learned my lessons yet," he shook his head teasingly.

"You're not staying here all weekend, using my books. I told you once before, I view studying as a solitary activity."

"I'd hoped you learned the error of your ways when we studied together for the presentation."

"You're not going to argue the fact that those were the most distracting evenings of your life, are you? Seriously?" she arched a brow at him.

"Give me tonight, at least. I promise not to even pretend that we're studying."

She sighed. "You get me all summer."

"Minus summer courses. Which I am not joining you for," he assured her before she could even ask.

"I'm only taking three classes. That's nothing."

"That's nine hours a week, for eight weeks," he shook his head. "That's seventy-two hours that I'm left to my own devices."

She looked at him in amusement. "What ever will you do?"

"I was looking into learning to pine," he dropped his forehead against hers.

She pushed him back slightly. "You're impossible," she said as she made her way in past the front entrance of her modest house. "Hello?" she called in toward the kitchen. When she received no answer, she moved to yell up the staircase. "Mom?"

"It seems you have a message," he looked at the blinking light on her machine.

"Play it, will you?" she asked, as she tossed her bag onto the couch, realizing the majority of her weekend would be spent holed up, her eyes glued to notes and sample questions.

He must have obeyed her command, as her mother's voice came into the room. "_Hey, it's me. The unforeseen has occurred, so I'm at the Inn. I would have left dinner money, but I only realized I should do that when I got here, so you guys can just come on over and either get money from me, or eat here. Bring gingko balboa. Love you_."

"Guess we should get going," Rory turned to face him.

"Rory—I have money."

"Tristan," she hedged. "The whole point of you coming over here was to make her feel more comfortable with us—remember?"

He sighed. "She's manipulating us, which is ironic, if you ask me."

"Ironic?" she asked, her arms crossing in defense. "What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing," he gritted his teeth. "Let's just go."

"No, tell me what you meant. How is this ironic?"

"They think I'm manipulating you."

"What?"

"Medina, he went on about my reputation, and how you were nothing to me; that I was only dragging you down, distracting you while I had my way with you."

"He said that?" she asked, the severity of his true opinion leaving a sour taste in her mouth.

"Not in so many words," Tristan consented. "But he made his point clear."

"I'm talking to Mom about this," she moved closer to her front door. "He has no right to attack you like that, he has no idea what he's talking about."

"Wait," he called out, barely catching hold of her hand. He squeezed it gently, but she got the feeling he was holding on for dear life. He was back on that ledge.

"Tristan, this isn't okay; he's not my father, he's not my guardian, and Mom should know; unless there's something you aren't telling me."

He sucked in air. "I may have mentioned something about how they aren't taking your feelings into consideration, with the whole them getting married thing."

Her stomach lurched. Like she had crested the hill on a rollercoaster; sheer exhilaration held hostage by the fear that the car might be going to fast and accidentally careen off the tracks.

"You what?"

"Just listen," he requested, "you've seemed so hesitant, and you told me yourself that you're not comfortable with him marrying your mom."

"I never said that," she back-stepped.

"You went on and on about how he didn't fit into your life!" he reminded her.

"This isn't about me!" she groaned. "I want my mother to be happy, and if this is really what she thinks will make her happy," she shook her head. "God, what she must think. I have to go talk to her."

"You want me to leave?" he ran his tongue over his teeth.

She looked at him, knowing that pushing him away would only push him to his reserves. She'd seen first hand that his method of dealing with pain was to hurt the person that had offended him even worse. It was what he had done to Medina, after all.

"Stay here. I'll bring back dinner," she said quietly, looking up into his eyes. All he could do, unsure of what her quiet resolve meant, was nod and watch as she moved out of her own house.

XXXX

True to her word, when she returned to her house, she had dinner with her in the form of a pepperoni pizza. She slid it on the coffee table, his attention instantly switched off of the book in his lap and on to her.

"I wasn't sure what kind you liked; I got pepperoni."

He nodded. "It's universal."

She nodded in return. He didn't reach for the box, nor did she as she sat down gingerly on the adjacent couch cushion, instead of smashing in on his section of the seat, to be as close as she could be. She focused on her breathing, realizing only that the more she thought about it, the harder it was to make it seem effortless. She wondered what it was about thinking about something that came so naturally that made it laborious. She looked up at Tristan, who was waiting for her to speak.

"I talked to Mom. I would have been back sooner, but she needed … she needed to talk."

He nodded, and for once, she saw a flash of what he must have looked like as a small boy; obedient, in need of direction and instruction, in need of love. As if he wasn't sure he would be receiving any of the above from her after what he'd done.

"She had no idea that Max had talked to you. She wanted me to apologize for that. It's not her style, to let other people handle things for her. She told me that as uncomfortable as she is with the idea of us, just from the way I've talked about you in the past, she never would have sent Max to talk to you about it," she explained.

"You talked about me, before?" his pride cut into her explanation, and she shot his ego down with one look.

"But she has always trusted me. And she agreed that she has to trust me to explore things with you, as long as I feel that it's the right thing to do."

"So, do you?" he asked, her own pride swelling as she made him sweat out an answer. It made her smile, in fact, a sweet smile that told him more than she'd dared before.

"Well, I'm definitely not finished with you—you've yet to make good on what you promised."

He was the one that moved in closer to her first, his arm around the back of the couch and his leg shifting nearer to hers. His movements were so smooth, so undetectable, so magnetic that she was honestly surprised when she felt his breath on her shoulder. "You plan on holding me to my word?"

She nodded, her eyes focused on the spot that he was making contact with her skin, despite the fact he had yet to touch her. She thought only that she may not survive the next few hours if she was already so sensitive to his extreme proximity. "I do."

"Remind me," he asked simply, and she hoped he was aching to touch her as badly as she wanted to feel him. "What did I promise to do?"

She smiled at his playfulness; his making her beg in this small way. She smiled because it worked and because she had no other choice; if she didn't humor his request, he would only prolong her wait for pleasure. She could make him pay at a later date.

"To give me what I wanted."

"And in your own words," he reached up, with the hand he'd been so careful to keep in his own lap up until this point, and traced her bottom lip. "What is it you find yourself wanting?"

She felt the shiver start between her shoulder blades, curling up her neck before shooting back down her spine. She closed her eyes for only a moment, in the time it took for her desire to turn to need. "Tristan," she whispered.

"Good answer," he said quickly and barely audibly as his lips were already on a mission to seek her out. She was no longer breathing of her own free will; as if he'd known of her difficulty while deep in thought, he took away both. She breathed his breath, sweet air that came deep from within him. This was familiar territory; his aggression and certainty for what she liked: how she liked his fingers tangled through her hair, how she liked the way his tongue teased her bottom lip after he used his teeth to pull her in closer to him. Perhaps she surprised him, however, in her own intensity. She'd always allowed him to bend her to fit him. Her reactions were always in due part to what he was asking of her body. Somewhere in their time together, she had learned what it was he wanted as well. She altered his normal rhythm, making him slow down to feel his own responses to her touch.

It was her, in fact, that made the first move that he had not anticipated. Her fingers had danced and swirled down his chest, not stopping as she tried her dexterity in freeing the copper button on his jeans. He squeezed her hand, and once again her eyes moved up to his.

"Hey," she batted her eyelashes. "I thought this was about what I wanted."

"We're in your living room," he managed.

"We'll be alone for hours," she promised, moving to kiss his stomach. His hand smoothed over the back of her head, enjoying the attention she was lavishing upon him until she got to the now unbuttoned top of his pants. He tilted her head up by her chin.

"Your room," he breathed. With one more nuzzle, she sat up off of him, offering her hand to pull him to a seated position. He held her against him, in an embrace of heated skin and askew clothing. She stroked his cheek, smiling at what she took to be hesitancy.

"Isn't this more comfortable than a toilet tank and a tile wall?"

"Honestly?" he kissed her shoulder. "This is the most uncomfortable couch I've ever sat on."

"I'm insulted. This couch has been very good to me; seen me through many a sick day," she pouted. "I have it broken in to meet my exact specifications."

"Guess I'm gonna have to find you another source of comfort," he grabbed hold of her ass, lifting her up with him. Her legs tightened around his waist, trusting him without words.

She giggled. "You want me to break you in?"

"This is about what you want, remember?" he dropped her from just above the mattress, but she gave a small bounce before he stepped out of his jeans, leaving them in a puddle next to her bed.

"Tell me you don't want me," she let herself feel what it would be like for him to tell her, for just a moment, nearly impossible though it was as he leaned over her in anticipation.

He shook his head. "I can't lie to you."

She pulled him down, harder than she had intended, using all her strength in case he might resist or insist that he be the one to set their course. Her kiss left the conclusion to their evening unclear in no uncertain terms. She could imagine no other words he could speak that would leave him more vulnerable to her; including the three that remained in the air above them, but not quite theirs.

As he kissed her back with like fervor and ardor, she couldn't imagine there was anything at all that could even remotely remain between them. She realized how she'd found herself in this position once before with him, completely unaware and unprepared. She knew the draw of him, and she knew that each time she had been hanging on, holding out, not quite sure if she was ready. On the edge.

It was then she knew, one second of clarity that he allowed her before he pushed past all her boundaries; his pleasure voiced in a low groan as she gasped. She wasn't sure, but she swore he spoke apologies into her skin, though for her life, she would never understand why he would ever apologize for this act.

If this is what she had been terrified of, then she too wanted to live in fear.

He'd made her shiver before, but now she was sure he was trying to light her on fire from the inside out. With a slow-burning match. His intensity, while still present, had gone from raging to quiet. She felt caught in the eye of the storm, until she could take it no more. With one hand, she reached out and caught his chin. His movements stilled completely.

"You're not going to break me," she promised. "Don't hold back on my account."

"Rory," he nudged her with his nose in the crook of her shoulder, holding the brunt of his weight up off of her using only his elbows. "It can be," he seemed to struggle with the words as what she was asking of him was what he was holding himself back from.

"It's what I want," she said, and then taking the precaution of her words not being enough, she skimmed her lips down his neck, ending on his shoulder with a bite. From that moment on, she assured him after every cry with an assault against his skin. She marked him with tooth and nail, only wanting him not to stop 'til she hit the ground.

XXXX

She wasn't asleep, and she wasn't awake. She could only imagine this was what a trance might feel like, had she been the sort to believe she could be malleable enough to give herself over to the control of a hypnotist.

This was what she wanted.

He lingered with her, being silly in the moments just after, not chastising for letting herself go as she had--and letting her go as far as she could into the reaches of pure bliss that came from falling to infinitesimal pieces before coming back together somehow more whole than she'd been originally. He'd told her she was beautiful as her slick skin glistened in the moonlight and her hair lay haphazardly around her glowing cheeks. He traced the bead of sweat that had developed as if out of air between her breasts, racing at tortoise speed toward her belly button. He'd shivered as night air chilled their spent bodies, pulling her in closer to find warmth.

She never wanted anything about this moment to change. Her only reaction to his body trying to separate from hers was to flop a lazy arm across his chest, her eyes remaining unopened. She felt his laughter before she heard it, it emanated from his stomach, working its way up until his shoulders shook. He kissed her arm before gingerly placing it over her own stomach.

"It's late, and I don't live here," he whispered into her hair.

"Neither of those are my fault," she managed in her thick voice, still not comprehending how he could move.

He gave another laugh. She opened one eye to see him in such a state of amusement. He looked as carefree as he sounded. He moved to kiss her still closed eye, then her nose, before catching her lips softly. He'd given her the brashness she asked for before, but now she was pleased to feel the slightest pressure in contrast. "I'll call you tomorrow," he said, sounding like every other man on the planet that'd just gotten what he came for. Perhaps realizing that, he pressed his lips to her scalp again. "I swear on my life."

She nodded her consent as he pulled the discarded sheets up around her stark body, white on white. She kept her eyes closed, as she could still feel him all over her skin; afraid to lose the feeling if she witnessed his departure.

It was in this haze that she relived each and every moment of the evening, so much so that she was sure that she had swirled parts that had not mixed when she heard the voices of her mother and the man who was now etched in not only her heart, but in her skin, her bones, her blood.

When they continued, she slipped out of bed, grabbing only her summer robe, and listened at her closed but thin door.

"Isn't it past your curfew?" was her mother's light hearted response to finding this boy in her living room and his asking if he could talk to her.

"I … don't have a curfew," he said as if pondering the idea for the very first time.

"Shocker," her mother was probably shaking her head.

"I wanted to talk about Rory," he confessed.

"Is she alive?"

"Yes."

"Is she hurt in some irrevocable way?"

"No," he sighed.

"Then whatever it is? Can wait. I'm exhausted. Some of us work for a living."

Rory winced. She knew the 'emergency' at work had meant an incompetent temporary employee had purged all the client files, most of the ending up on the floor like cards in a game of 52-card pick-up, as she looked for one specific file that Michel had yelled at her to find ASAP. It meant an evening of her, a very disgruntled Michel, and the night manager Tobin coming in for extended shifts to right the wrong before all hell broke loose. Lorelai probably wanted nothing more than to have a beer while taking a long bubble bath, ending her night by falling face down on her Hello Kitty pillow. Tristan couldn't provide Lorelai with the same kind of release as he'd provided her. Rory wondered if any man ever had.

"I'm not going away."

Rory, and she was sure her mother, perked up. "What?"

"I know she talked to you tonight, about me, and I want to tell you that you won't be sorry, for accepting this."

"Accepting this?" her mother let out a small giggle that only turned into a full laugh. "I'm sorry—you think any mother ACCEPTS the fact that her teenage daughter is dating a boy with no curfew, or rules of any kind, I'm guessing, especially one that she caught pleasuring her daughter in the home of her grandparents?"

"My mother probably wouldn't give a damn," he offered.

This silenced her mother and made her own heart lurch.

"I'm sorry that Max spoke to you like he did; not that I disagree with some of his sentiments; you are to be careful with my daughter or suffer my wrath. If you worry about no one else in this life, worry about me."

"I'm not here asking your permission," he began.

"Well, you should be. I'm not kidding. I want you to live in constant fear that should you put one toe in a place that makes my daughter upset, I will be the one to cause you pain like you couldn't imagine existed. I love her that much. She is all I have, got me?"

"I know how you feel—I just wanted to tell you that you didn't have to worry about her when she's with me."

"No offense, but if you tell me you love her, I'm gonna have to gag."

"Fair enough. I won't tell you."

There was a long silence. "I don't know what you know about the difference, but Rory is way too good a person to be offered up sex instead of love."

"Rory wouldn't be with me, if she doubted my intentions. I'm not asking for you to like me; I'm just asking you to give me a chance."

"You really care what I think of you?" Lorelai asked, still not buying the audacity involved in her current situation.

"No," he said with the cavalier attitude that few people offered up so honestly. "But I care what she thinks, and she wants you to approve."

Her mother let out a long sigh, and she was sure she was appraising this man. "What about the living in fear thing?"

Wagering. Classic Lorelai Gilmore.

"I can work on that," he promised, she was sure that he was sealing the deal with a smirk.

"I like a team player. Now get out so I can have my nervous breakdown in peace."

Rory listened to the soft click of her front door being shut, slipping under her covers and waiting for the tell-tale signs of her mother coming down the hall to check on her. Either she was more tired than she'd originally surmised, or she had taken Tristan's words at face value of her being safe, because Rory never heard Lorelai's footsteps approaching her room that night.

She wondered if he got the same thrill in being in this uncharted territory as all the stupid pranks he'd pulled had. She wondered if what they had shared could be matched if he added each and every past conquest he had under his belt. She wondered if he felt the surge of ecstasy even in the little moments when the gates broke open and they allowed each other to see just a little bit more of who they really were.

Bit by bit, she'd become an addict in need of the rush he provided her.


	7. One Step Forward is Worth Two Steps Back

Title: Slipping Under The Surface

Chapter: 7—One Step Forward is Worth Two Steps Back

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I don't own anything buy my laptop, and trust me, you don't want this laptop…

Description: Sequel to Untouched… Another Trory… It starts out M because Untouched was M…

She liked to be prepared.

It wasn't just about gathering her wits or preparing appropriate topics of conversation. She was more than capable of matching anyone at any level with repartee, and he'd witnessed her level unknowing and under-skilled opponents by just pulling from the top of her reserves.

It was one of her traits that he had noticed, admittedly third, but so strongly in the beginning that he was all but forced to keep returning himself to the ring of contention with her over and over again. Those first two things… well, she knew him well enough, and she knew where his affections lingered well enough to realize that his attention was nothing if not stolen when confronted with these his favorite of her assets. And he was more than wise enough not to admit to such liabilities.

She was the sort that would use them to her advantage—and unconsciously to boot. Skirts would be cut different, her eyes would widen in curiosity—and it would all be over. She was lethal enough in her state of general ignorance of what drove him to the breaking point.

He'd called her, just as he'd promised her he would, the day after they'd had sex. It wasn't unusual for a girl to make such an effort, to extrapolate from him such a promise to keep in contact after being so close. He was fully aware that even those who proclaimed to only be in it for the momentary thrill felt a shift, becoming convinced that no one could be that good without the feelings behind it. None of them understood that they'd met the exception to every rule. Promises flowed from his lips, anything in order for him to make his great escape.

But she was his great exception. He promised her, already knowing he would do it. He was forming the words even before she opened her eyes to make sure of his steadfastness. He didn't retreat back to the safety of his car, ready to shower the experience away and go to sleep alone, letting it become just a faint memory.

He hadn't gotten so far as her front door when he parked himself down on that sorry excuse for a couch. Plywood with fabric stretched over it, which did nothing to comfort his already aching muscles. He wasn't sure what he was going to say; he only knew what he wanted. He knew the likelihood of her telling her mother what had transpired between them, even in gentle shades and overtones, was high, and all he wanted to ensure was that a chastity belt and the legal system wouldn't come into play.

Her mother looked at him like she recognized him; and not in a good way. Her eyes were mistrustful, like she knew him in a past life and he had done her a grave disservice. Like he had the power to take all that she held dear in her life, dangle it in front of her, and destroy it while making her watch before putting her out of her misery. He wasn't sure he believed in past lives, save for a stab of displacement from the present reality whenever he was so connected with Rory that he didn't know which way was up or whose skin was whose.

He found himself wondering how many lives you could live in one lifetime.

He finally left her house, which seemed bigger and more welcoming with every moment he spent within it, finding himself feeling oddly hollow and intemperate as he slipped into his usual routine after an evening spent in the company of a woman. Pulling his car into the garage and walking into his empty house wasn't a relief. Shedding his clothes on his bathroom floor, not commingled with hers, and cranking up the temperature of the shower left him cold in the moist heat of steam it was creating. He turned it off, without utilizing it, and climbed between his cold sheets, wishing he'd just listened when she'd protested his removal from her arms.

He'd given up on his fitful sleep at six in the morning. Not only was it dishonest to lie there and pretend that he was finding rest; but he heard the distinct sounds of someone entering his home and at least it was a distraction, if not a welcome one.

He looked at his cell phone as he slid his legs out of the bed, stretching muscles that had been exercised the night before, but realized that he had no idea what her normal waking hours would be like now. Not only was she on her final exam study schedule, but he found himself hoping that her entire system had undergone the same kind of shock therapy that his had—making him strangely aware of acute differences and unable to just go about life as normal. He pulled up a pair of lounge pants over his long legs and ran one hand through his hair, scraping his nails over his scalp. The prospect of seeing his parents at the bottom of the stairs—his mother annoyed at the small tip his father would have left some attendant on the way back from the airport and his father having a hair of the dog while completely ignoring her horrified state—didn't appeal to him. It fit with everything he'd been feeling since he reentered his house last night. All he wanted to do was get in his car and make good on his promise to talk to her today.

To his immense relief, it wasn't his parents. His grandfather was kicking in a pile of newspapers from the front stoop, but turned to look up at his grandson with displeasure when he heard his bare feet padding on the hardwood of the staircase.

"Stacks of newspapers are a blatant indication that no one is home," Janlan chastised.

"Half the time, it's quite true," Tristan shrugged, looking at the impressive pile that had accumulated since his father wasn't around to read the paper every morning over coffee.

"You can't be bothered to simply toss them in the recycle?" Janlan asked.

"I'll have the maid get on that," he turned toward the kitchen, opening cabinets in search of a box of cereal.

Janlan was on his heels. "You could read a paper now and then," he offered.

"I like my MTV," he crunched on a handful right out of the box.

"Two different papers are best—opposing points of view," he advised.

"That's why VH1 was created," Tristan smarted off.

"I'm going to talk your father into cutting off your cable TV," Janlan rapped on the counter.

"Is that really why you came over? To make me squint at tiny print and make my fingers all inky?"

"I came over to tell you I'm going out of town Wednesday morning, so I have to reschedule our weekly dinner."

Tristan shrugged. "Fine by me. I have finals anyway—some say I should be studying, but if you think reading the paper will help me more in life," he took the rolled up paper, which he assumed was that day's, out of Janlan's hands.

"I assume you have plans for tonight," he sighed. "Saturday night is still considered date night?"

Tristan reached for more cereal with one hand. "That's very narrow-minded thinking. Any night is a good night for dating."

"So I was thinking Sunday night."

"Peachy," he crunched, now engrossed in an article about hw the local economy was lagging, compared to projections and what the summer tourist activity might do to improve conditions. "Tourists in Hartford?" he snickered. "Why would you want me to read this drivel? Anyone who's anyone is trying to get out of Hartford and to the coast," he pointed out.

"I didn't say everyone who is paid to transcribe their thoughts onto the paper was worthy of your complete attention. Learn to skim," he reached his own hand into the box of cereal. "What is this crap?"

"I'm sorry, did you just say 'crap'?" Tristan laughed.

"It's atrocious. You should have the maid come in before noon when your parents are away, get a real meal," he instructed. "Oatmeal, now that will stick to your ribs."

"I prefer my food to move on through, thank you," he shook his head, taking another handful and turning his attention back down to the paper.

"Fine, you've no use for any of my advice," he said in a tone that told Tristan that it was in no certain terms all right—that if he failed to listen, he'd regret it in some way. He was a master at that tone, in most cases it was more than justified. "I'll be on my way. Just be sure that you and Rory are at my house by seven tomorrow."

His attention snapped like a too-tight rubber band. "Me and Rory?"

Janlan nodded calmly. "You are still seeing her, aren't you?"

The knot in his throat felt like it was bulging out, stretching his skin. "Yeah."

"I assumed that if you were still dating, through the summer, you might want to invite her out to the Cape," he trailed off.

"I--," he stammered, the thought definitely having crossed his mind, but discussing with it with anyone save for Rory honestly hadn't.

"Tristan?"

"No, I mean, yes, I had thought about it," he sat up straighter, correcting his posture.

"Calm down son, it's not like I've invited your parents," he put his hand on his shoulder. "I just want to meet the girl."

Tristan nodded and took a breath. "Fine."

"So, you'll be there? The both of you?"

He looked him in the eyes. "We'll be there."

XXXX

He had called her, as promised. He just didn't let on that he was in his car, watching the dotted lines go by like little pinpricks, ticking off the distance he was eliminating between them. After his grandfather had left, his urge to hear her voice had spurred into something so unrecognizable, tangible enough to take hold of him, that he found himself showered, changed, and shifting his car into reverse before he could even begin to think this might be about needing her.

"Two minutes," came her automatic response, before she even knew the identity of the caller.

"Is this some sort of ETA? Like, in two minutes you'll be naked and under the hot stream of water that will be pelting your body, washing away the scent of me from your skin, because," he began.

"Tristan?"

He could practically hear the flushing of her skin.

"Is there someone else that you've having phone sex with on a regular basis?"

"We do not…," she paused. "We've never done _that_."

"I guess I can't speak for you and how much restraint you have when I'm not in the room, but last week, when I described how I was going to get you off without using my hands," he paused for the memory to invade her brain, "I was definitely using my hands to provide myself with a finale fitting the description of phone sex."

"Tris_tan_," she hissed.

"Are you telling me that you didn't even hint at a little over-the-clothes action?" he baited her.

He heard her deep, yet shaky, breath emerge. "Your two minutes are almost up."

"Can't I just keep on the line for an additional fee? That's usually how these things work," he teased. "Besides, I keep thinking of that day in the bathroom when you offered a fast fuck—I don't think you were really giving it a fair chance. But just imagine how much more intense your orgasm could be with your cheek against the cold tile, pressed so hard that it's painful," he relished in the knowledge that no matter what she had been doing or how hard she was focusing on pushing him out in favor of taking in useless knowledge of Keats, differential equations, and the Hundred Years War, that his voice was making her squirm in her seat and close her eyes in effort to truly feel the contrast of cold ceramic against her skin.

"Rory? You still there?" he smirked as he teased her.

"I'm here," she managed.

"Just making sure. You've very quiet."

"I'm just… studying."

He smiled. "Anatomy?"

"You're distracting me," she scolded.

"That was kind of my intention," he let her in to his little secret. "How distracted are you?"

"Shouldn't you be studying?"

"On a Saturday? I have rules that provide structure in my life, and the first and foremost is never, ever study on a Saturday," he lectured. "In fact, now that you're in my life, I think it's time for you to see the genius of this rule."

"How about next Saturday?"

"Next Saturday you won't have homework."

"Exactly."

"I don't think you're appreciating the blow-off quality of my rule."

"Tristan," she sighed. "I still have a lot to get through."

"How long have you been at it? Surely you need a study break," he tried to edge his presence into her schedule.

"Six," she said it softly, as if she was embarrassed.

"You got up at six?" he could have crashed the car and not realized it as she spoke.

"I, um, just couldn't sleep," she admitted. "After you left," she trailed off, no doubt feeling embarrassed.

"Me either," he said quickly, to soothe her. "I got up at six, too."

"So, you'll get up at six, but you won't study?" she teased.

"Do you think you're so forgettable?" he inquired.

"What?"

"I don't see how I can be expected to study, when all I can think of is you, last night, the way your eyes opened right before you called out my name," his stomach tightened as the memory seemed to put his body through the sensation she'd caused in him all over again.

"You're trying to blame me for your inability to study?" she asked, now incredulous.

"I'm serious. I just want to see you."

"I… don't think that's a good idea."

"A half an hour."

"Will turn into longer," she protested.

"I'll buy you an ice cream cone," he offered.

"I'm not two," she volleyed back.

"I'll show you what it feels like when I use my ice-cold tongue against your body," he ventured, wondering if that would make her hang up or beckon him to drive faster.

"A half an hour—no ice cream," she said sternly, but her voice laced with curiosity.

"I'll be there in five minutes," he said, ready to hang up.

"Five minutes? Tristan, where are you?"

"Turning off into Stars Hollow," he said, but was met with a dial tone. Frowning at the speaker, he hit the disconnect button and kept on toward her house.

XXXX

Pulling up into her driveway, he saw the last Gilmore girl that he'd encountered the night before, lounging on the front porch with a magazine and a glass that was making a lazy trip up to her lips as he ascended the stairs.

"I wouldn't go in there if I were you," came her words of wisdom.

He stopped, leaned against the porch railing, and cocked his head. "Why not?"

"Well, now, I can only give you my eyewitness account, dashed with what I surmise to have happened before that, but it's based on years of experience observing the same sample," she sat her glass on the ground and rested her magazine against her chest.

"Okay," he frowned.

"Well, Rory was up at the crack of dawn, with books spread out all over the house, with a trail of note cards that would have saved Hansel and Gretel—I mean, who doesn't know that animals will eat bread crumbs? I've never seen an animal eat a note card, well maybe a goat. Goats eat anything, don't they?"

"I … don't know?" he offered.

She shook her head. "Anyhow, she was doing all the behaviors that make me nervous that she will never properly fit into a functional society, which I tend to sleep through because otherwise I try to make her stop, breathe, eat, go shoe shopping, you know, the basic essentials of life," she tossed her hair over her shoulder. "All of which turns her into one of the Plastics, but with way more highlighter issues," she took a dramatic breath.

He held in the smile and nodded for her to continue. There had to be a point somewhere.

"And I was sleeping through it, until about ten minutes ago when she let out a blood-curdling scream, which is the most effective means of waking me up. So I come downstairs, and find her running around, jumping into the shower where, I swear, she had note cards as well," she sighed. "I asked her if she was on fire, you know, over stimulation of the brain just BAM! sparked a flame or something, but she yelled out that you were on your way and she'd was, and I quote, 'disgusting,'" she picked her magazine up. "I came out here for fear of getting run over or being smothered to death with note cards. I wouldn't go in there."

He nodded. "I feel so special—you looking out for my safety this way."

She arched an eyebrow. "I take it you didn't come over to borrow her notes."

"I'm just here to provide her with a study break."

Her gaze narrowed for a moment. "Rory doesn't take study breaks. I've been trying for the last ten years."

"Tristan, hey," Rory emerged, looking freshly showered and changed in the doorway, quickly shutting the front door behind her.

"Hey, hon, come here, I think you have a note card stuck to your back," she peered at her cautiously.

"Stop," Rory shot her a look. "So, you mentioned ice cream?"

He looked down as he laughed softly, then glanced at the two of them. "Yeah. Should we take my car, or walk?"

"Oh, we can walk. We'll be at Luke's," she informed her mother as she stepped up to stand beside him.

"Oooh, do me a favor?" her eyes widened with her bright idea.

"That depends."

"Hey, I birthed you, and I get a favor-dependent attitude? I so needed to take notes when we watched _Mommy Dearest_," she sighed.

"I'm not going to bug Luke to get cones," she shook her head.

"But what is ice cream without the waffle cone?" she cried.

"I'll tell you what. I'll go to Doose's and buy you some waffle cones," she offered.

"I don't want just waffle cones," she pouted. "The cones are like the extension of the ice cream—they're like edible soul mates!"

Rory bit her lip and looked from her mom before daring to meet Tristan's eyes. He flickered his eyes toward her and barely missed a breath's time before he spoke.

"Like mac and cheese?" he asked. He felt her arm slip through his, a sign of approval. It was the first time she'd touched him since the night before.

"Thank you!" she cried. "Ooh, bring back some mac and cheese from Doose's. And Fritos. And some of that off-brand onion dip," she began her list.

"The salsa con queso mixed with guacamole is really good with the Fritos, too," Tristan pointed out.

Lorelai looked at him with sudden interest. "How certain are you of your paternity? Because I'm starting to wonder if we're somehow related, and that would mean that this would have to end," she gestured to the point of their juncture. "It might even be illegal."

"Okay, I'm taking you away before she proves that we're first cousins or something," he felt the pull of Rory's hand, leading him down the steps again. Lorelai gave him an approving smile before flipping the page of her magazine and picking up her cold drink again.

"I'm sorry about her, she's well, in desperate need of mood stabilizers."

He laughed. "It's not a problem—she's colorful. She kind of reminds me of you."

"I'll take that as a compliment," she stuck out her chest ever so slightly as they walked, a show of pride. "So, what were you two talking about?" she asked, her voice full of trepidation.

"Oh, you know—she was just warning me how terrifying you can be," he played up the conversation for maximum drama.

"Excuse me? I'm not the one that sings show tunes at the top of my lungs in order to get someone else to do the laundry!"

"Why would anyone ever do that?" he asked, completely reeled in, fascinated with this side of her that he'd only really seen in shades and tones before.

Rory sighed. "Even if I use the most twisted logic known to man, you would never understand," she shook her head. "What did she warn you about?"

"How scary you can be with note cards," he raised an eyebrow. "Something about her fear of being smothered by them. But I'm fairly sure she just didn't want me roaming into the house and catching you in the shower," he smirked, causing her blush to reappear on her fair skin.

"Right," she nodded. "About that," she swallowed uncomfortably.

"About you in the shower?" he clarified.

"No," she worried her bottom lip with her teeth. "I, um, sort of, talked to my mom. About us."

The way she stressed 'us' made it more than apparent as to the actual topic of conversation. He shoved his hands in his pockets and kept pace beside her as they continued to walk down the story-bookish street. It was as if every house was made of gingerbread.

"You really tell her everything, huh?" he couldn't help the bewildered, freak-out boyfriend voice. Not that he cared who knew or was in any way afraid of her mother—something in their exchanges always made him feel they were much more equals on some unspoken level than any adult he'd ever encountered.

"Not everything—she just had concerns. Safety and such," she added hastily.

"I'm always," he began.

"I told her. She still made me swear on a stack of Bibles, which took her a half an hour to convince Mrs. Kim that she wasn't up to something paganistic in order to use them, but she made me swear all the same."

"So, that's it?"

"Well, she jokingly asked if you were any good," she made her best attempt to lighten the moment.

"What'd you tell her?" he leaned in, his body pressing hers just enough to make her nearly stumble, her foot not quite taking a full step.

"Well, it was my first time—I don't really have anything to compare it to, but," she spoke in the airy, not-a-care-in-the-world tone she took with him when she was trying to deflate his ego a few notches. He knew better than to let her ruffle his feathers, knew just from living through the experience that she needed nothing, no other example to compare it to, to know it didn't get better than that. The thought of her with someone else, some other guy being the one to make her cry out like that, her hands clinging to someone else's muscles as if they were the only thing holding her to the earth—he shuddered slightly despite the heat of the early morning.

"I do," his voice was laced with gravel as his arm slid around her waist, anchoring her to him. "You want to know how it compares?"

Her eyes lit up, as if for a moment she might say yes; but a look of lustful shame made her shake her head. "I've heard enough about it to know that was unique."

He nodded, keeping his eyes on hers. She stopped suddenly, and he realized they were at a crosswalk. He looked up to see the vaguely familiar diner and moved his hand down to slip his hand around hers. "That's one word for it. So," he nodded to the diner. "Does this mean you're up for my ice cream trick?"

"No," her eyes widened in surprise. "It means that I deserve a study break, and you're paying," she corrected.

"So, you only taking this one break all weekend?" he inquired, his conversation with his grandfather turning over in his head.

"Well, I do have to eat and sleep, or Mom puts the mental health facility in Woodbridge on speed dial. She called them last year, and the rest of the night, she kept holding a mirror under my nose and timing my blinks," she frowned.

He laughed at the insanity he could now practically envision. It was surreal, to think of anyone in his life performing such tasks of such a peculiarly nurturing nature. "Well, we don't want that. I think you should schedule in at least one more break now to be safe."

"Oh, you do, do you?" she smiled knowingly.

"I do. And, so that I know you're blinking and breathing and eating, I think you should let me take you to dinner tomorrow night. That gives you the entire weekend, and however many hours you want to devote after that dinner, to study until you get the full on egg-shape to your head."

"Normally I just order food in when I'm in finals mode—and Mom's not going to be home, so I was going to order from the Indian place," she began to splay out the weekend she'd envisioned, a myriad of plans that had nothing to do with him.

"But you know what would be so much better about letting me take you to dinner?" he led.

"That I'd get out of my house, thus giving my brain a rest without being able to secretly sneak a peek at my notes while I'm supposed to be focusing on nourishing myself?" she guessed.

"You'd be with me while you do it," he corrected her.

"Your modesty is astounding. Do you actually believe I'll do better on my exams if I spend time with you instead of every second I can studying?"

"I think you'll do just as well, no matter how much time you spend with me, and I also think that when you look back at this point in your life, you'll wish you'd had a little more time for fun."

She reached up to place a gentle, accepting kiss on his lips. When she pulled back, she maintained eye contact. "What time are you gonna pick me up?"

He smiled back. "Sixish."

"Okay," she looked down for a moment. "So, ice cream?"

"Lead the way," he held the door to Luke's Diner open for her, letting her duck under his arm to pass into the air-conditioned building.

XXXX

Having made a promise not to ask him where they were going every five minutes was killing her. Even if she wasn't using a pad and pencil to directly figure out the best route to any destination, she was calculating them in her head, taking into account traffic, speed limits, and possible construction sites. All she could really tell tonight, however, was that they were on her normal route toward school. He looked over at her in her seat next to him, her fingers slid underneath her jean-covered legs and her bottom lip between her teeth. She smiled, just like that, her teeth leaving an indentation in her smile that he found fitting. She was in torment.

"Are you sure I'm dressed appropriately? 'Cause it seems like we're heading to Hartford, which has way more fancy restaurants per capita than, say, Stars Hollow."

"Did you think I was just going to take you to Luke's? You eat there every day," he shook his head at her logic.

"What's wrong with Luke's?" she asked, now a bit flabbergasted. "If you find one restaurant that serves the best coffee in the eastern seaboard and burgers that can literally have any topping that you desire on it, what else is left?"

"What ever possessed you to put mashed potatoes on a burger anyhow?" he asked, having been too sickened at first, and too disbelieving later to ask.

"Not me—Mom. She and Jose had something of a power struggle the night prior," she led.

"The gardener?" he gave the benefit of the doubt.

"Tequila," she nodded curtly. "It was the last time Dad came to town," she shrugged and looked out the window.

A brief silence followed. Nothing in their relationship had changed in the light of the night prior. He could know every inch of her body all he wanted, he could memorize and mold himself to her, but when it came to the things that she kept inside of her, he was sequestered to bits and pieces—tiny nuggets that may not make sense for years until a related tidbit came his way.

"Well, what if I tell you the place I'm taking you had coffee that makes Luke's look like watered-down mud?"

Her head swiveled to him. "I'd ask why you've been holding out on me."

"Timing is everything," he shrugged, pulling away down his grandfather's street.

"Are we stopping by your house first?"

"Nope," he shook his head. "No hints, I told you."

"Are you going to tell me why we're pulling into this house's driveway?"

"This is where we're having dinner," he said with a sigh.

Her silence spoke volumes. He pulled his car into the driveway, put the car in park, and got out to walk around and open her door. When she didn't move an inch, he leaned down.

"The food is inside the house—it's not a drive-in."

"Whose house is this?"

"My… grandfather's."

He had no room for superiority as the veil of suspense had fallen away. He had suspected all along that she would have reservations about joining him for this dinner. He couldn't pretend that it wasn't a big deal; even though he'd met her family already, he wasn't the first guy she'd brought home for approval. Approval in her world was paramount, something that reverberated in each and every aspect of her life.

"Your grandfather's," she nodded as she spoke slowly. Each and every syllable annunciated to drive in her disapproval, with just a mix of disbelief thrown in as if it might not be true.

"He invited us to dinner."

"And you were seriously planning to tell me now?"

"You wanted to meet my grandfather," he leaned his forearm over the top of the car door.

"Yes, but," she closed her eyes.

"You wanted it to happen, he invited us, and so now we're here. Everyone's happy."

"Do I look happy?" she checked.

"What exactly is the problem?"

"You mean besides the fact you didn't see fit to run all of this by me before we left my house?"

"You'd already said--," he began to reuse the only tired argument that he could cling to.

"Look at me!" she splayed her hand down over her chest and thighs.

"So you're a bit casual—black tie isn't mandatory."

"Says the guy that's appropriately dressed for the occasion."

He began unbuttoning his button-down shirt, leaving only the plain navy tee shirt underneath.

"What are you doing?" she whispered harshly.

"I'm not the one worried about being appropriately dressed—take my shirt."

"Why don't we just light up a couple of cigarettes and I can lose my pants, too," she tossed out.

"What?"

"Tristan, if I walk into your grandfather's house dressed in your clothes, he's going to assume that we, that I," she struggled for her words.

"Wear my shirt, don't wear my shirt. Either way, it won't matter. He's going to like you, no matter what you do."

She crossed her arms over her chest.

"You really don't want to go in? We can leave," he baited her.

She looked up to the front door, then back at him. "No. We're here, we have to go in. He's expecting us, right?"

He nodded. "It'll be fine. Just a casual dinner, then I'll take you back so you can finish saturating your brain with practice tests."

She took his hand and let him help her out of the car, walked beside him to the door, and waited silently for the maid to answer the door.

He put his hand on the small of her back, regardless of her wishes to be miles away from him, steering her toward the sitting room. "Grandfather?"

"In here," he called out.

Tristan stopped, took a breath, and looked at Rory. "Ready?"

Her only reply was a raised eyebrow. "Right. At least wait until we're back in the car to rip my head off?"

She tilted her head to one side thoughtfully. Before she could properly answer, Janlan met them in the entryway to the sitting room.

"Welcome," he smiled warmly at his guests.

"Grandfather, this is Rory Gilmore, Rory, this is my grandfather, Janlan DuGrey."

"Nice to meet you, officially," she extended her hand cordially.

"Officially?" he inquired.

"I, uh, was with Tristan quite a bit, waiting with him at the hospital," she explained, clearly having assumed Tristan must have mentioned her presence at some point, he was sure by her tone. He cleared his throat.

"Didn't I mention that?"

"You seem to have omitted some details," Janlan smiled still. "It wouldn't be the first time."

"It's good to see you're feeling better," Rory smiled tightly.

"Am I correct in assuming your shirt has his name written all over it?" Janlan pointed to her tee shirt, much to both of their chagrin, which had 'Easily Annoyed' written across her chest.

Rory's blush was instantaneous as she glanced down. "Oh, no, it's uh, my mom, she has this thing," she cleared her throat uncomfortably. "She says I'm cranky when she tries to talk to me while I'm studying, and it's finals, so," she trailed off. "You kind of have to know her sense of humor."

"Oh, your mother's sense of humor is legendary," Janlan assured her. "I've had the pleasure of meeting her on occasion. A very wry wit, your mother has."

"That's her," she visibly relaxed a bit.

"Well, let's sit, shall we?" Janlan offered. "So, you two have final exams coming up—it was very gracious of you to fit me in like this. I was just telling Tristan that I have a business trip coming up that will take up quite a bit of my time. I just ran into Richard and Emily, and from what they said, I was left wanting to meet you."

"Oh, how nice."

"They seemed to think you two made a very handsome couple—a very amiable match."

"She keeps me on my toes," Tristan put his hand on her knee, to which she shifted and re-crossed her legs.

"So, Rory, your grandfather keeps going on about how you're headed for Harvard," Janlan handed her a club soda.

"That is the plan."

"And you want to be an international correspondent?" Janlan pressed on.

"Did you Google her this afternoon?" Tristan took a sip of the soda he wished he'd poured himself so that he could have nipped a bit of whiskey into.

"Richard and Emily gush on and on about how proud they are of her, I'm just making polite conversation."

"Is that your way of saying you aren't proud of me?" Tristan asked.

"That depends—have you done something respectable?"

"He's in the top ten at Chilton," Rory offered, selflessly and despite her current state of displeasure.

"Intelligence has never been an area of lacking for Tristan—just where he chooses to apply it has been a problem in the past."

"She's reformed me," he smirked, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, ignoring her squirm.

"Hardly. I've been trying to get him to study all weekend."

"Well, even the best of intentions are lost of some people," Janlan nodded. "So, what are your summer plans?"

Tristan shifted in his seat and tightened his grip on her shoulder.

"Summer classes at Chilton; I still have a bit of catch up to do, what with transferring as a sophomore."

"Which town do you live in?"

"Stars Hollow."

"Can't say I've ever been through there."

"It's… unique."

"Very low crime rate, increasing property values," Janlan nodded. "Again, according to Richard."

"Grandma and Grandpa have never really been big on the fact Mom moved there, but we like it."

"Well, enjoy the small town life now, if you're an international correspondent that will all be over."

"I can be based anywhere I want, I'm sure."

"You'll be exposed to every city in the world—who knows which one will catch your fancy," he smiled. "Will you be seeking out any internships like Tristan?"

"You have an internship?" she turned her head to look at him for the first time since they were in the car.

"More like a labor camp," he sighed.

"Working at the law office is hardly a death sentence," Janlan pointed out.

"Sounds like a great opportunity," Rory encouraged.

"If you want to be a lawyer," Tristan sighed.

"Well, son, if you'd show an interest in one certain career path, like Rory here, then you wouldn't be placed in situations that are so displeasing. The least you could do is be grateful and make the best of every opportunity that comes your way."

"Dinner is ready," the maid came in through the connecting doorway.

"Shall we?" Janlan stood up and took the lead, leaving Rory and Tristan to stand in his absence.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" she looked at him through half-closed lashes.

He wasn't quite sure which morsel of information she was talking about. He was no better than she was when it came to revealing personal information. He wasn't an open book, as vulnerable as he suddenly felt in her presence. As much as he wanted her to tell him things, to be the one she confided in, he wasn't quite able to do the same for her. She already had her support system in place, her mother and her best friend the ones she went to when she was in pain. When his type broke her heart, for instance.

There were things that she would not even go to her mother about. Types of pain that he himself was used to holding in. Each was doing their best to harbor the things that weren't supposed to affect them so much. Each was just trying to prepare themselves for future pain.

"Rory," he reached out for her.

"Your grandfather is waiting," she walked past him and moved toward the dining room. He caught her hand, twirling her around fast and hard to pull her against him. His lips pressed into hers, his force softening her resistance.

He didn't tell her she was right—he just rested his forehead against hers. She sighed, knowing she wouldn't leave, nor would she make a scene here. He saw the glimmer of redemption in her eyes as she took his hand.

"So we should get in there."

He nodded and led the way toward the rest of their evening. He allowed her more of a glimpse of the only family life he had received in his sixteen years, and she was gracious enough not to freeze him out or chastise him until they got back into his car. This was becoming a learning process vastly different than anything they were given in school, and at times more than each alone thought they could handle.

Without her, he was ill-equipped to envision happiness.


	8. Great Expectations

Title: Slipping Under The Surface

Chapter: 8—Great Expectations

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I don't own anything buy my laptop, and trust me, you don't want this laptop…

Description: Sequel to Untouched… Another Trory… It starts out M because Untouched was M…

He never knew when to quit.

Some called it tenacity, an ability to persevere in the face of adversity, and an unwillingness to fade into the abyss of popular opinion. She, as always, found other words to describe him.

Specifically self-important, stubborn, and juvenile with the incapacity to let anything go were terms that jumped to her mind as she seethed in her seat next to him, determined not to even give him the satisfaction of letting her skin of his arm brush that of her leg as he maneuvered the car out of gear. She had to wonder though, if her opinion even mattered to him. If, had he actually asked her if she'd wanted to have dinner with his grandfather, her response would have penetrated through his desires and made the slightest bit of difference.

His reasons for extracting as much time and energy from her today of all days was no longer clear as the wooded scenery had given way to sprawling mansions. His tone remained playful, and his answers to her probing questions elusive. She had little choice but to fold her arms over her chest and watch as the houses got bigger; the lawns greener.

Despite her growing, anxiety-producing suspicions of where they were headed, she found herself nothing short of flabbergasted to be sitting in cut-offs and a novelty tee shirt that her mother had bought on principle after squealing loud enough to garner the attention of all the shop patrons and ranting in response to Rory's single protest about her threshold of annoyance, leading her to give in and swear she'd wear it if Lorelai swore to obey its 'message.'

He got out of the car, perhaps expecting her to exit as well, but shock had rendered her motionless. Reasons why she should just stay in the car, or better yet flee to her trusty bus stop, filled her head, right alongside questions as to his motives.

It all stopped for the briefest moment when he opened her car door and gave her a look. There was no malice, only remorse, and in that second she could almost hear the words forming from his lips saying that he was just here to pick something up on their way to an informal dinner alone.

Whatever she had seen in that brief moment was gone the next as he leaned one arm atop the door frame and lowered his face within smacking range.

"The food is inside the house—it's not a drive-in," his tone was cocky—set in full-on persuasion mode.

"Whose house is this?" She knew full well where they were, but she was damned if she wasn't going to make him admit it.

"My… grandfather's."

She knew they continued to speak at one another; vaguely aware of his efforts to make her believe that she had asked for this meeting. She could feel his warmth, his face was so close to hers, and his voice was kept low—to the point of straining, probably so that anyone attempting to eavesdrop would have to put in a lot of effort to succeed in doing so. She heard him start to reuse the same tired argument, something about her wanting to meet his grandfather, when it hit her; the full scope of the scene that was going to unfold if she got out of this car.

The first impression she was going to make on the only adult in his life who he respected was going to be while she was under the stress that only final exams induced in her and while dressed like an extra from _Dazed and Confused_.

She could not go in there.

There surely could have been a better opportunity for her to meet the much-discussed Janlan Dugrey. She understood why Tristan hadn't done it while his grandfather had still been in the hospital. These men abhorred weakness, and it was hard to make an acquaintance when wearing a gown that had no back even for the meekest of people. She'd been there solely for Tristan's sake anyhow—to hold his head in her lap the few moments he found rest, to listen to stories of how this man had shaped his life, to assure him that those days were not over. It hadn't been the right time for either men, and so she'd been glad to wait for better circumstances.

Including, and just off the top of her head, the two of them dropping in for tea after school, still in her uniform and nearly toppling over from the weight of her backpack stuffed with books. Or, perhaps, dessert some Friday night after he picked her up from her grandparents' house, located not so far away.

Even being shanghaied at one of her grandparents' painfully boring cocktail parties would have qualified for acceptable in her mind.

Basically any situation than the one he'd put her in. He had to be out of his mind, of that she was sure, but then the feeling grew stronger as she narrowed her eyes at the action his hands were performing. Deftly taking two fingers to do the work, he unthreaded the third button from the top out of its hole, making his way down the precious few he had bothered to fasten, now revealing completely the tighter undershirt that clung to him in the heat of the early evening.

Had she been talking about his shirt? She wasn't sure of anything but the definition she could see through even the thicker, expensive undershirt that he normally wore beneath his button-ups. He pulled it out of his khaki-colored shorts, leaving two inches of lean abdominal muscle visible to her eyes for two seconds at most as he readjusted it over the top of his pants. It's possible she took the pangs of frustration and desire she felt from that brief flash of skin out on him as she continued.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm not the one worried about being appropriately dressed—take my shirt."

Her mind drifted, visions of her hands slipping up underneath the hem of his blue tee shirt, peeling it away from his chest and giving it thought only as long as it took to discard it onto the floor. She blinked as the blush crept up her cheeks, praying the stain would go away by the time she inevitably let him escort her to the front door.

"Why don't we just light up a couple of cigarettes and I can lose my pants, too," she tossed out. She wondered if she was at least torturing him with images the way she felt he was punishing her just by standing so close, looking so good.

"What?"

His shirt hung loose around him, as they discussed fashion. She knew her time was drawing closed; their host probably past expecting them since the look in his eyes was verging on desperation for her to comply with this situation that he seemed to think was set in her favor.

By the time she took his hand, he'd offered to take her home and reassured her that it would be casual and over soon enough for her to return to her obsessive study patterns, and she began to wonder just how much this was his idea and how much it had been decided for him. He squeezed her hand hard, just as he had the first time the doctor had approached him in the waiting room after they'd been waiting two hours to hear about his grandfather's condition the first day in the hospital.

She found herself squeezing back as she walked side-by-side up to the massive front entrance to the mansion that could have easily been twice the size of the one she dined at every Friday night. He looked down at her and pressed the doorbell after she gave him a slight nod.

A wave of security flooded her as she felt his hand on the small of her back, leading her toward the booming voice coming from deeper within the interior.

He looked truly nervous as he stopped and faced her. "Ready?"

Part of her wanted to hug him and be the supportive girlfriend, but the other part of her could still see the other options that included her being properly attired for this rendezvous. So instead, he got a raised eyebrow.

"Right. At least wait until we're back in the car to rip my head off?"

Her head fell to the side as visions of how to best extract her revenge from him at a later date—sometime after exams were no longer looming over her, when she could put her full imagination and devotion into discovering ways for him to make this unneeded humiliation up to her. Memories of their days spent sneaking around streamed across her mind's eye, and she had a coy retort all lined up when a very strong presence suddenly commanded both of their attentions.

Despite the very cordial nature of the introductions, the first glaring point that stuck out in her mind was Janlan Dugrey's general knowledge of her and her existence had not come in any way, shape, or form from the boy that stood still holding tight to her hand. She made what she hoped were unnoticeable attempts to slip out of his grasp, but he only laced his fingers through hers and led her toward the sitting room at his grandfather's ushering.

She scooted to a proper distance away from him, giving her an entire seat cushion to herself, only to have him slide over in one fluid motion, edging her between him and the arm of the loveseat. She managed to maintain her focus on their host all the while, miraculously, while he began a descent into inquiries about her goals and future plans.

This was one conversation she was qualified to have. Even in times of stress—be it from finals bearing down on her or the way her boyfriend's hand insisted on trying to snake its way onto her thigh at inopportune times—her goals for the future remained constant. She recrossed her legs in effort to dodge his inappropriate advances and kept agreeing as Janlan did surprisingly most of the work for her.

For Tristan not saying a word about her, he knew an awful lot about her and her aspirations, to the point she wondered why he even bothered asking her at all, save for fact verification. Tristan, it seemed, noticed it too, and he commented on it as his arm slid around her shoulders. She had no way of escaping this embrace without physically leaving her seat, and she silently cursed him. She sat up straighter and tried to ignore the edge to his voice as he spoke, still politely if not passive aggressively, to his grandfather.

Suddenly, the edge gave way to condescension and she realized she was being used as a leeway to other topics, heavier-handed ones that only concerned her in the fact that she suddenly found her own hand resting on his leg, wanting to soothe the nerves that she could practically feel fraying, like a torn thread.

His grip got tighter on her shoulders as she did her best to relax back against him as she took note of the look in Janlan's eyes. They focused in on Tristan; turning a steely almost grey-blue, like Tristan's did in times of conflict. She dared to glance sideways to check, seeing them darken in likeness as she heard the words summer and internships float in the air around them.

Suddenly she realized the conversation was once again aimed at her, though she got the feeling it wasn't truly, despite the warm look that was once again focused on her from across the coffee table. In the blink of an eye, she felt the switch flip, and she felt the urge to excuse herself to the bathroom as Janlan's spear-like attention turned to Tristan once again, and they seemed to be replaying bits and pieces of old arguments; like the parts of certain records that would skip but just wouldn't break.

It was only as the maid came to announce the prompt readiness of dinner that her mind wrapped around just exactly what they'd been discussing in so few words and so many innuendos.

At least now she knew where he got it from.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" she asked, as they stood in the wake of what had just transpired. She couldn't look him in the eyes, but she didn't pull away when his hand went to her waist to reel her in closer to his torso. But only for a moment.

"Rory."

The very sound of her name, the very way he said it, spoke volumes. That he hadn't known how to tell her so many things. That he didn't know how to fit her into his life yet. Here she was, bending and nearly breaking sometimes for him, and he still wanted her to wait until he was ready to fit her in.

She walked past him, following in the footsteps of the both the maid and his grandfather. "Your grandfather is waiting."

She didn't get far, his hand circling her wrist thanks to his longer legs and quicker stride, and she felt her body jerk back like a snapped rubber band, her breath knocked out and hair streaming against her face as she twirled fast and stopped hard against the solidness of him. His lips sealed over hers, his grip loosened as he surely realized that she wasn't likely to pull out of this, even if her good sense tried to take over.

She was so far beyond good sense.

She kissed him back until he pulled away, an oddity in their moments of intimacy. She saw a wave of something in his eyes, the way words seemed to be pulling at his mouth despite his remaining silent, and after a long moment of looking into his eyes as he pressed his forehead against hers, she let out a soft sigh.

"So we should get in there."

He just nodded and took her hand as they made their way toward the dinner that had been so lavishly, despite his prior assurances of its lax nature, set out for them in advance.

XXXX

He didn't open the passenger-side door for her. She watched as he strode over to the drivers' side, opened the door and popped the locks. A mechanical invitation to get in next to him. Just as inviting as the cool look he gave her while the maid escorted them to the front door. She let out a howl of frustration and jerked open the door. As it slammed shut beside her, she turned to him.

"You're kidding me, right?"

"Put your seat belt on," was the only reply she received.

"Are you mad because he liked me?" she tried, not obeying his command.

Now his eyes were on hers. "I'm not mad. I'm just ready to go."

"Well, I'm not. What is your problem?"

He took his hand off the keys in the ignition and turned in his seat. "You know damn well why I'm pissed. What possessed you to do that?"

"Me? I'm sorry, you drag me here without a word, I'm polite to your grandfather, and I even supported you when he started in on all that talk about you spending all your time goofing off," she began.

"Who asked you to defend me?" he erupted.

"Well, you certainly weren't correcting him. Do you honestly want him to think that you're just frittering your time and his money away, taking out bimbos and trying not to get caught for underage drinking?"

"Correcting him doesn't do any good," he yelled. "Nor does having you do it for me!"

"What is your problem? He liked me, he seemed to think I was on whatever path they want you on, so shouldn't you be grateful to have me as a witness?"

"What I want is to take you home so you can get back to studying like the good little girl everyone wants you to be," he growled, turning the keys hard in the ignition.

"Hey, I do this for me, not anyone else, me!" she grabbed his arm, yanking his hand away from the controls.

"They've brain-washed you, Rory. No four-year-old knows where they want to go to college."

"Screw you! My mom just wanted me to have a better life than she had," she bit back, burned.

"Yeah, well, that's lovely, but not all of us come from such well-intentioned families. No one cares about me doing better or being happier than they were."

"You told me over and over again how much you respect your grandfather, and how he's the only one that has ever really been there for you!"

"I don't want to talk about this," he put his car into reverse, not even looking as he backed down the driveway. "It wasn't your place to say anything to him about my life or what I want."

"Clearly it's not," she bit back tears and buckled her seat belt just before they came to a very abrupt stop. The sound of busting plastic and bending metal accompanied their sudden halt, and her hands jutted out to stabilize her against the dashboard.

"Fuck!" he yelled, his hand moving out to body block her. "You okay?" he asked softly.

She just nodded, but refused to meet his gaze. "Rory?"

"Check the car," she managed.

"Fuck," she could hear him say again as he nearly leapt out of the car and went around back to survey the damage to his car. She could see in the side-view mirror that he'd backed into a mailbox, and she'd guessed that it had broken his rear tail light.

She crossed her arms, closed her eyes, and waited. She counted to ten, concentrating on her breaths, silently telling herself that she was fine. Just shaken up, and surely pissed off, but fine.

He was in the car again before she got to thirty, and he made no attempts to be gentle. Instantly the car was moving again, and his hand moved down to check her seat belt. She fought the urge to cover his hand with hers, but his words were still too fresh in her mind.

In fact, she held her tongue and her body very stoically until they were pulling into a suspiciously familiar driveway, and slowed to a near stop as the gates to the Dugrey home opened to allow them entrance.

"What are you doing?"

He didn't even look her way. "I have a busted tail light. I'm going to change cars, because if a cop sees my busted tail light, he'll pull up my information and drag me in. And if I have to call to get bailed out of jail, my father's response won't be one I can live with."

"What cop is going to take you to jail for a broken tail light?"

"Must be nice never to have had any priors," he smirked sardonically.

"You've been in jail?" she asked, her mind literally aching at the image. She knew he was all for playing the bad boy, but there was a line that she couldn't imagine him crossing.

"We can take the Bentley," he unfastened the shoulder restraint, looking at her with unreadable eyes. She didn't move; she was waiting for his response. "I'm not a hardened criminal. It's all kid stuff, underage drinking, supposed reckless driving, but when the list gets long enough, they try to scare you."

"And you're scared?"

"He'll send me to military school. It's his newest threat."

"Like, an empty threat, right?"

"My father doesn't do empty threats. And now, it's just gonna get worse when he hears about this."

"The broken tail light?"

"No, you!"

"Me?"

She was beyond flabbergasted. He was clearly infuriated, still sitting behind the wheel of his now-damaged car, his hand raking through his hair. "Now he has more leverage, can't you see that? Grandfather will talk to Dad, all excited about how you're this good influence on me, and he'll know that if I'm with someone like you, that I'm serious about you."

"Tristan, I don't see how--," she began, but he cut her off.

"You going on and on about how I was in the top three percent of our class, how I was doing so much better in school, agreeing that I should be spending more time studying and focusing on future goals—to them that all signifies my being with you as me trying to change."

She got quiet for a moment, the thoughts and rationales he gave her trying to form connecting lines in her mind. "So, why are you with me?"

He looked to her, in such a way that she thought she might cry from the sheer intensity.

"What?"

"Why? I mean, clearly we don't want any of the same things, we are from two completely different worlds, and God forbid we agree on anything ever. You haven't told your grandfather, the one person in the world that you respect, anything about me."

"Rory, that's not," he shook his head.

"It's not true? It is true. All he knew, he got from listening to my grandparents gush on about me at some inane cocktail party."

"That's what I'm trying to avoid, don't you see that?"

"My grandparents or cocktail parties?"

"Both!" he yelled. "Rory, if I went to my grandfather and told him how amazing I thought you were and went on and on about how hell-bent you were to get into Harvard and how I would go to fucking community college in Boston if that's what it took be near you, assuming I fucked up too bad and couldn't get in because three generations of my family have spent their donation money at Yale," he began.

"You can't go to community college," she frowned.

"If I went on and on about how much I loved you, then they'd be drawing up prenuptial agreements and controlling our weekends—toting us around to their friends at cotillions, weekends at the Cape, and before we knew it we wouldn't remember who thought of the idea of us first."

"You did," she whispered. "I don't think I'll ever forget that."

"I respect him, I do. He built… all of this," he sighed. "And while I have my obligations, like this summer—which will not affect my plans to spend as much time with you as I can—I've been keeping you separate from them and that part of my life because I thought it was better for us."

She put her hand on his now, "Oh."

"I'm sorry. I know I should have told you all of this before I dragged you in there, but he told me we were coming with no notice last night, he didn't ask me. Ever try to refuse your Grandmother's whims?"

She smiled despite herself and the entire evening. "We should probably keep my grandmother and your grandfather completely in the dark and at completely separate functions for a few years."

He hooked his arm around her shoulders, laced his fingers through the back of her hair, and pulled her in over the armrest. "Am I corrupting you now?"

"If it's for the greater good," she smirked back.

His lips met hers in the same manner as the playful banter they'd established. Her hand moved to his chest, feeling him solid and warm under her hand. The shirt he'd offered her earlier in the afternoon was shirked off, helped by her greedy hands, and forgotten as a joint venture tossed it into the backseat. He sat up on his knees, leaning over her so that her head was tilted up and back, unable to do anything but let him consume her.

Her eyes unfocused for a moment as his hand slid up under the hem of her previously unwanted, and now unneeded, tee shirt. A noise of approval escaped her throat as his lips moved from her mouth down to her neck.

"Tristan," she managed, not wanting him to stop, but suddenly very conscious of the fact that they were on the road to undressing in a garage that other people had the power to open, thus catching them in what was fast becoming a very delicate situation.

"Oh, right. I promised to get you home," he sat back on his heels, his lips swollen and his eyes cloudy with lust. He looked more intoxicated than anything else, to the point of him driving was laughable.

"Maybe it'd be better if we just went upstairs?"

"Upstairs?" he blinked.

"Your parents aren't home, right?"

"No," he frowned.

"Wouldn't it be better if we were up there instead of in here if they should come home?" she hinted another way.

"I—they're in Asia."

"Okay, then I just don't want the stick shift in my butt," she teased.

"But you said," he began.

"Tristan, take me upstairs," she reiterated, determined to shake him out of whatever fog he was clearly in.

"Right, sorry," he snapped out of it and before she knew it, her back was pressed into the banister of the main staircase in the grand mansion. His hands lifted her up the next step, wide around her waist, and she leaned down in her position of power over him.

"So, you said something earlier," she kissed the top of his ear.

"I was pissed," he barely applied pressure as he leaned up to quiet her. "I didn't mean to say those things."

"So, you didn't mean it?" she threaded her hands through his hair, holding him in a position to retain eye contact.

"Okay, look, I said a lot of stupid things, can you narrow down which one you're referring to?" he went straight to the point, as he slipped his hands further up her rib cage. "Unless angry works for you."

"You said," she hesitated; worried for a split second that she'd misheard him in the heat of battle. He nodded, waiting for her to go on, and she realized if she wanted to hasten the trip up the stairs, she'd have to spit it out. "You said you loved me."

One hand slid out from under the cocoon of her shirt and rubbed at the back of his head. "I did?"

"It's okay, I know guys say that and it's not a big deal, I just," she soothed, wanting only the feel on his lips on her; on her skin, over her wrist, inside her thigh, on her shoulder blade….

"It is a big deal," he granted her one small desire as he took her arm and brought her wrist up to his mouth. The pressure of his lips against the thin flesh made her pulse jump. "I just didn't realize I said it. I haven't ever…."

Her eyes lit up. "Never?"

His lips grazed her neck. "I never meant it."

"Never?" she asked again, as she strained to keep her body from shivering.

"I hadn't even thought of a way to tell you, because I never thought you'd," he paused only to kiss her again, softer, deeper; making her dizzy in a way that only he could. She reached out to hold her weight up by gripping his arms. He used the one hand that never left her waist to slide around her body, nestling her against him.

"Never?"

He didn't answer her this time, save for pulling her up and saving her the trouble of walking the rest of the way to his bedroom. He closed the door, at which point the clothing trail began. Later he would walk his way back, retracing and reliving this very scene in his head, as would she as she looked on from her perch on the bed; seeing the way her tanned flesh was revealed as he peeled her tee shirt off like a second skin and the first moments that the flesh of his chest melted into hers. The feeling of his own blood vessels bursting as her teeth moved over his chest. And she would giggle as he'd manage only to toss her clothes further out of her reach, and his into the laundry hamper in his closet.

But first she could feel his hesitation just before his body truly joined hers. He kissed her collarbone, between her breasts, then her stomach. His hands canvassed her body, his palms gliding over expanses and his fingers circling around the most sensitive and delicate of areas. She saw the look in his eyes that he'd had so much earlier; the one he had when she would have sworn he was holding something in, some revelation that would ease her mind or explain his motivations.

"I love you."

She never wanted him to stop.


	9. Wanting Something More

Title: Slipping Under The Surface

Chapter: 9—Wanting Something More

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I don't own anything buy my laptop, and trust me, you don't want this laptop…

Description: Sequel to Untouched… Another Trory… It starts out M because Untouched was M…

She was terrified of being in love.

The idea of being beloved, of people adoring her and taking care of her, was engrained in her as much as her love of reading was. All the people her mother had surrounded her with acted as pillars of unconditional love, support and protection, no matter their lots in life. She had free roam of her small town from the age she could toddle away from her mother's sight, and she had been as safe as if she were tucked in her own bed with armed guards watching her while she slept.

But no one could protect her from seeing what being in love had done to her mother. Nothing could shield her from the pain and guilt that bubbled up in her chest when she'd tiptoe to her mother's room and hear her arguing with Christopher on the phone or crying alone in bed.

These were the things she knew of being in love.

In the past, instead of expressing such fears of her own fated amore falling to pieces and leaving only ruins of greatness behind, she had fled. He himself had borne witness to others falling under her spell—hypnotized by flashes of blue and waves of spun chestnut, consumed to the point of having no other choice but to confess their feelings to this creature that held their hearts.

She wasn't mindful of how devastating her blows were. Her hesitation was hurtful, her reluctance to reciprocate like a vise around the heart. It was only in the aftermath that she could assess what had happened in a moment of panic—what she'd lost and how she could spin it as protection. Things she was missing out on, things she was giving up; they paled in comparison with the alternative. What she gained to lose by letting herself be as mindless and enchanted as the boy that wanted only her happiness was staggering and enough to make her blanch and ruin all confessions of true love.

While true that the night he'd confessed his own descent into the throws of first love, mindless and enchanted as he was, she had failed to say those same three words back to him, he'd felt her body yield to his. He'd heard words, so close to what she wanted to say. Words that filled her body seeped out of her lips; his name, God's, pleas for more of him, more of her…. It was all he could do now to keep within the lines of his lane as he neared her hometown. He'd last driven this route that very night, taking her home at break-neck speed, as they toed the line of her curfew closer than they ever had. They'd spent the prior two hours in his bed, her fingers tracing the lines of his muscles, her lips pressed into his chest, her giggles muffled in his skin as they exchanged words and glorious silences.

On her porch, her eyes searched his, but all she managed was a goodnight. He fought back an urge to repeat the sentiment; knowing too much of a good thing could turn her and settled for a kiss.

He'd seen her, of course, as they shared classes together. The final exam schedule was rigorous, as per usual, and the few moments her eyes caught his in class, she offered him a smile that he knew she would not give out to anyone else. Blue books were opened, graphite pressed firmly, and the sound of scribbling filled the rooms they sat in for hours at a time. By the time he was finished, she had long since double checked her tests for mistakes, handed them in, and hit the library for another pre-test cram session. He settled for lunch breaks at her side in the court yard, books open and only their knees touching as they sat in study on a bench together.

The time to sit back had passed. Finals were over, summer was dawning, and the desire for more filled him. Tonight was the night of her mother's engagement party. She'd asked him before the drama that had occurred at his grandfather's house to be her escort for the evening. She'd diplomatically hinted that his best behavior be called for, in exchange for keeping him safe from the roaming hands of certain older, and at the party drunken, women that were always on the look out for fresh meat to pinch. Tit for tat.

The entire town square was pink. The main roads had been blocked off, in order for present tables and food spreads to be set up. He followed the Stars Hollow Department of Transportation and Surveillance signs, easing his car around the turns toward their house. He parked the car to find her sitting on the porch with a book, lost in the pages.

"You are not reading."

She looked up after a moment at the sound of his voice chiding her and his feet shuffling the gravel of her driveway.

"Actually, I'm not."

He frowned and pointed to the open book in her lap. "I know it's been a long week, but that thing you hold in your hands is called a book. They print words on the pages, and you intake those words by this process called reading."

"With me, it's more like osmosis," she grinned. "But I'm not really reading. I'm sitting out here with a book, pretending to be reading so I don't have to play which pair of shoes goes with the cake and the decorations the most game."

"Sounds like a stimulating game," he slid onto the swing next to her, his bare forearm brushing hers. She was wearing a sleeveless dress, one she would be sorry of in a few hours as only the stars shone overhead. It would be his arms she relied on for warmth in lieu of the sun.

"Says the guy that hasn't been forced to stare at 100 shades of pink since arriving home from a week of mind-numbing exams."

"I could go in there and tell her they all look like Pepto-Bismol to me," he grinned evilly.

A wave of amusement passed over her face before she tried to look stern. "I seem to remember you saying you were going to behave tonight."

"Maybe you'll just have to distract me from my errant ways," he slid the back of his fingers up along her leg, starting at the knee and pushing the wispy fabric up her smooth thigh.

He heard her breath catch in her throat, allowing his hand to travel up farther than he'd imagined before her hand eased onto his, halting his movements.

"Hey," he leaned in.

"Hey," she fluttered her eyes, a sign she was ready for a kiss.

"So, are you dressing up like an extra from Strawberry Shortcake to match the town's décor, too?"

"You have some kind of fetish for seeing me dressed up?" she asked rather boldly, her lips still hovering near his—not taking any action other than teasing him rather effectively. His mind shot to a preference for her to keep her Chilton skirt on during a quick interlude.

"Trust me, if I was dictating which outfit you dressed up in, you wouldn't resemble a cartoon character, nor would you be fit to attend a party for your mother."

She blushed slightly and relaxed back into the cushion. He moved abruptly, giving her a hard, quick kiss, stolen from Sunday night's marathon of passion instead of what passed for an initial greeting. When he drew back as suddenly as he dove in, he noticed the instant dilation of her pupils.

"So, Max is really leaving tomorrow?" he asked, trying to leave his gleeful tone out of the inquiry.

She raised an eyebrow. The topic of the co-honoree of that night's party had been strained since the incident after class where Tristan hadn't bothered to go out of his way to alleviate the older man's fears, and as far as he knew Rory was doing her best to avoid any awkward confrontations on the topic. If she wasn't comfortable exchanging words of affection, no way was she ready to stand up for her sexual rights with Max—who loomed between a literary mentor and a soon-to-be parental figure for her.

"Mom has been speaking to him in a Canadian accent all week and trying to get him to say 'out and about' properly," she smirked.

He had to smile. "She really doesn't mind her fiancé is fleeing the country before their wedding?"

She rolled her eyes. "It's not like he won't come back—Max is not the flight risk in this relationship," she assured him, sounding rather cryptic.

He eyed her for a moment but said nothing. Her hand sought his out, her fingers sliding between his digits. Her nails grazed his knuckles and he closed his hand around hers. She wasn't running.

"I saw the gazebo had been turned into a present collection site. Not to mention the additional overflow tables they've used to block off the streets. Should I have brought a present to this thing?"

"You already did," she looked up sheepishly.

"My sheer presence is enough?" he led.

"Hello Kitty Waffle Iron, in pink," she recited.

"What will your mother do with a waffle iron?"

"Take it to Luke's and make him fix her pink waffles," she said without batting an eye.

"You're not kidding," he sat up straighter.

"It's not like she'd make you eat them," she teased. "In fact, she's never been big on sharing," she frowned.

"I mean you actually bought a gift for me to give her?"

"I just signed your name to my card," she shrugged.

"How much was it?" he inquired, reaching back into his wallet, but she shook her head. "Rory, come on," he sighed.

"Tristan, your money is no good here. You should only give gifts if you know what to get the person, and I figured it was just easier this way. It's from me, but you're a part of the package now, so I just tacked your name on. If you aren't comfortable with that, I can take your name off the card," she offered.

"No, adding me is fine," he shook his head. "Just tell me how much it cost."

"Why?" she blinked.

"Thirty? Forty?" he guessed, not knowing or wanting to comprehend the value placed on something as ridiculous as a Hello Kitty Waffle Iron.

"Forget it. We should probably get going. Unless you want to walk over with Mom and Max?" she moved to stand up, but he gently jerked on her hand and caused her to step between his knees.

"How much?"

"If you really want to pay me back, we can work out some other system, much more valuable than cash," she leaned forward, her long hair cascading down around his shoulders and giving them a shield of privacy. He moved his hands up to her neck and threaded his fingers in at the base of her hairline.

"Such as?"

"Books. And keep 'em coming," she smiled wryly.

"I can teach you things you'll never find in books," he leaned up, ready to kiss her again.

"Not on my front porch you won't," came a voice he hadn't anticipated.

"Evening, Lorelai," he leaned as far back from Rory as he could, as she herself straightened up and arched her back over the porch railing.

"You know, there is only so much one can do, to prevent a homicide. When it's your time to go, it's your time to go," she glared at him more than she needed to.

"Mom," Rory piped up.

"I just meant there are some things you have to learn by doing, not by reading."

"Well, Rory's always been exceptionally gifted. She learned to fish from a book," she smiled proudly.

"Yes, but you did not," Rory pointed out.

"Did you mean fishing?" Lorelai posed back to him.

"Most gerunds," he shrugged.

Another narrowing of the eyes, and then she leaned against the closed door. "Max will be here soon. You guys can walk over with us."

"I thought we'd hit Luke's first, get some coffee to prepare us for the long evening of celebrating your joy," Rory didn't even blink as she begged off.

"Ooh, coffee," she checked her watch. "Max can walk over by himself, right? I mean, how dumb do you have to be to get lost in Stars Hollow? And he's all kinds of educated," she made the innuendo, which made her daughter's face twist in horror.

"Ew," came the protest, and the cry echoed in his own mind.

"Payback is a bitch," Lorelai grinned. "Remember that," she said pointedly as she gave him another glare.

"We'll grab you a cup," he promised. "I take it you'll be residing on that throne they were installing when I passed by?"

Another smirk. "I might be somewhere in that vicinity. Could you maybe mention to Luke that I'd like him to drop by?" she asked Rory in a softer tone.

Rory nodded. "Why wouldn't Luke come? Did you make another inappropriate Paul Bunyan reference?"

He wondered how a Paul Bunyan reference could be considered appropriate, but said nothing as the older woman's eyes got cloudy.

"I don't think he likes Max," she sighed.

Rory's grip on his hand tightened, he was sure in effort to remind him to behave, but he required no such prompting to bite his tongue.

"He'll come around. After all, Max is great to you and loves you, so Luke will see that and be happy for you and start liking him. Or, at the very least, stop giving him that glare and switching out the menus on him an hour and a half before he stops serving breakfast."

Did she honestly believe her own words? If so, he stood a chance at this game, despite the grand level of naivety that made him blanch. It'd been clear that the diner owner carried and Olympic-sized torch for the bride-to-be and was set to hate any and every one of the men who threatened to alter their passive-aggressive mating ritual.

He cleared his throat. "We should go now, or risk being fashionably later than the bride and groom to the party," he piped in.

"Be gone. I have finishing touches to add."

Rory halted. "I hope that doesn't mean anything feathery or coated in glitter."

He smirked as Lorelai flashed a coy grin and shooed them away. He jutted his hand down and out to guide her, earning a yelp of protest from behind them, and he eased his hand up from her ass to a respectable position on the small of her back. Rory moved her hand behind her back and slid it into his again, to save him from further actions that might lead to his homicide. He pulled her in tighter against his side and ducked his head in a nod toward her mother, who was still on the porch watching them walk away.

"Maybe I should get her my own present," he kissed her temple.

"There is a matching grilled cheese maker," she tried to smother a giggle.

"Noted," he ignored her amusement, just enjoying the moments of solitude that she'd so skillfully avoided the entire week prior.

XXXX

In his world there were two types of parties—both of which revolved around the staggering consumption of alcohol. And while it was clear a few had imbibed in what smelled to be punch-flavored vodka, the majority of the people had come to celebrate the impending union and nothing more.

In truth, he couldn't tell anyone the 'occasion'—if there had been one—for most of the parties he had attended. Not that each and every one that his parents had forced him to make an appearance at in efforts to present the happy family image everyone would be all-too-thrilled to gossip about falling to pieces didn't have a cause lurking as an alibi.

Inevitably, money would be waved, someone's girlfriend would run into their wife, tears would be shed and skeletons unearthed before taxis were called to cart all the drunken participants and spectators home again.

That was, he believed, the beauty of his generation. The object of their evening, in most cases, was to feel good; or at least different—be it pleasure or just another kind of pain. And the concept of hooking up made it that much easier and acceptable to crash wherever one landed come the end, no matter what time of the day or night that was.

Sitting on this bench with her head rested against his shoulder in the center of this pink-iced town, it seemed to that those nights of debauchery had been from a lifetime he'd lived before.

"Are you really bored?"

Her voice broke through his thoughts. He pulled back a little to show his face, and his honesty, to her.

"I'm good. Watching the insanity is a nice change of pace."

She nodded. "It's quite a pastime around here. It's never boring—there's usually a surprise in the mix with the old standbys, too."

"Such as?"

"Last year at the Founder's Day Festival, Gypsy got mad at Bootsy, because he insinuated she'd ripped him off when she replaced his transmission, and ran home to retrieve the misdelievered collection of love letters his girlfriend had written to him from prison and read them over Kirk's bullhorn."

"Wow, now that is entertainment."

"That is small town life," she agreed, her smile still audible in her voice. "Are you sure you're not bored?"

"Do I look bored? I just saw someone chase someone else down the street armed with a giant cookie."

She made a face. "This just isn't your kind of thing. I know you're just here for me."

He considered her words. "So?"

She sighed and rested her head lazily on his shoulder. "So, we could do something else. We've made our appearance, and it's gonna take Lorelai a week to open all those presents."

He knew she meant they could take off—see a movie, enjoy the perks of an emptied house, take a drive in the middle of nowhere to ensure even more privacy—but he had doubts as to her actual desire to leave. "You wanna dance?"

She leaned up now to look at him in surprise. "What?"

He shrugged. "The music's good. Why not?"

"Lane's doing the music," she batted it off, clearly not expecting anything other than the perfect blend of songs. "But I don't really dance."

"That's okay. The guy leads anyhow."

Her eyes lit up as something dawned on her. "You know how to dance?"

"I am a man of many talents," he smirked.

"And here I thought you were just a pretty face," she shook her head in mock surprise.

"With a body to match," he winked and stood up, offering his hand in the process. "Come on."

She shook her head, seeming to look around as she did so. "How about we get something to eat?"

"Are you afraid?" he chided.

"Afraid of what?" she narrowed her eyes.

"Dancing?"

"I'm not afraid of dancing," she rolled her eyes to prove her words.

"Me?"

She looked at him sharply. "I'm not, nor have I ever been, afraid of you."

"Prove it," he said, still waiting with his hand outstretched to her. He wondered if she knew all the things that lay just under the surface of his challenge. She took his hand at any rate, and he wrapped his fingers around her palm firmly, leading her out to the area where many others that were caught up in the romantic atmosphere of the engagement party were twirling and swaying to the music.

He took her hands and placed them on his body in the proper places—starting out a little closer to each other than he'd been trained. Her hand didn't lie lightly on his shoulder, rather her fingertips dug around the bones. He kept his hand open and smooth against her back and brought their joined hands in over his heart.

"Ready?" he breathed into her ear.

She nodded, looking up into his eyes. Her movements were stilted at first, stiff and reactive. He pulled her in closer and dipped his head down just far enough to lean against her temple and he felt her relax, if only the slightest bit.

"This isn't so bad, is it?" he asked as his body automatically moved in succession to the beats that filled the air around them. She would stumble her way into the steps with him or after him, but he compensated and corrected to make their motions appear fluid.

"I don't know what I'm doing," she admitted into his ear.

"You can't be in control all the time."

She moved in closer to him.

"Does that scare you?"

"A little."

"If you feel like you're losing your step, just lean in closer to me," he advised, and nearly a beat later she took his advice. "See? I've got you."

Her head was now on his shoulder, and he used the crown of her head to rest his head as well. As they moved in their own orbit, he noticed an empty throne and his English Lit teacher holding a very pink, very furry pillow as if trying to figure out what role it would play in his life. All he could think was that the man must be in love, and secure in his manhood, to have put himself in such a position.

"Sorry," she mumbled, the sound muffled more by the way her mouth was pressed into his shirt.

"What for?"

"Your toes must be numb to the pain by now," she blushed a little. "I suck at this."

"You just need more practice with a good teacher. Luckily, you have one."

She arched an eyebrow. "I'm trying to picture you as a teacher. I'm not seeing me learning so much."

"Your body just has to learn to respond to mine. There are many ways to do that."

"I thought your summer was being spent interning," she reminded him.

"I don't plan on being the first one there and the last to leave. My presence is mandatory and my attendance and interest will reflect that."

"Every opportunity should be taken as a way to get your foot in the door."

"The only door I want my foot in is yours," he assured her.

"Even if it's not what you want to do," she tried.

"Rory, I've heard the pitch from Gramps, and the 'no say in this' speech from Dad," he cut her off.

"I just meant," she began.

"I know what you meant."

"I don't want you to be miserable all summer."

"You're gonna let me keep you company in my spare time?"

She didn't hesitate. "As much as you want."

"I plan on having a lot of spare time," he warned.

"Then I hope you enjoy taking over the grunt work that my mother has become so dependent on Max to do."

"Grunt work?"

"Changing water bottles, making snacks that require something more sophisticated than the microwave—once you have crunchy tater tots, you can't go back to mushy."

"There are people you can hire, you realize that, right?"

She just shook her head. "Not in Lorelai's world. And for some reason, she gets a kick out of seeing men do these things for her."

"She probably just likes to check out their asses while they're bent over at work. Are you comfortable with me becoming a sexual fantasy for your mother?" he tested her.

"Keep this up, and you will no longer be one of mine," she narrowed her eyes.

His lips curled up in pleasure. "You fantasize about me?"

"I never said that," she shifted in his grasp, he hoped to alleviate the desire for friction.

"What are you saying?"

"Just that, I don't like the idea of anyone checking you out while you're bent over, but the idea of my mother doing it is especially Oedipal, and I don't want to have to gouge my own eyes out," she babbled.

"And?" he led.

"And it isn't a total mistruth to say that, occasionally, every once in a while, I might think of you when you're not around," she swallowed and then dared to meet his eyes.

"What do you think, when I'm not around?"

"That it… might be nice… if you were around," she managed.

"Rory," he could feel her on this cusp, on the edge of nearly letting it all go and saying things she wasn't ready to say no matter how much she felt them, and pressed his lips into hers. As he pulled back, the noise of the crazy guy yelling about cookie lines in the bullhorn and Elvis Costello cranking up on the speakers mixed in with the giggling of little girls that were running around the gazebo in little flower girl dresses—their reality coming to claim them. She rested her head back on his shoulder as they fell into the beat of the next song.

"This isn't so hard," she said after a minute.

"You want to take a food break?"

"Maybe after the next song," she smiled more confidently at him. "It's actually kind of nice."

He spun her around and in, hoping she wasn't taking notice of the fact that her mother was still not next to her fiancé, but rather leaning over the counter in the diner, empty save for her and the man that was trying to save himself some heartache. She didn't need any more of an excuse to point to what she was feeling and match it up to the lows you can only hit after flying so high.

He just hoped he was the one that could make her feel safe.


	10. For You I Will

Title: Slipping Under The Surface

Chapter: 10--For You I Will

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I don't own anything buy my laptop, and trust me, you don't want this laptop…

Description: Sequel to Untouched… Another Trory… It starts out M because Untouched was M…

AN: You guys have been so good about not bugging me for updates… maybe it's because you have given up on me or have stopped reading, but I like to think you're just generally good to me with the no pressure thing and accepting updates as I can get to them. Anyhow, another one is finally done, and I hope you all enjoy…

His options were limited.

You wouldn't know it to look at him. Everything he owned was of the best quality, newest technology, and latest version to exist; from cars that weren't available to the general public to sheets with thread counts so high they resembled SAT scores. He'd been bred to expect the best; of his possessions, of those he surrounded himself with, and of himself. He'd been given every advantage to excel to those means—considered its own reward and punished when he fell short.

Having the finest the world had to offer sounded like most people's dream come true. Most people wouldn't consider that constricting. Most people didn't see him like she did.

Summer had been in full swing for two weeks. She had fallen into her routine, going to class in the morning, taking the bus back to Stars Hollow, and working either at the bookstore or the Inn for a few hours, then heading home to shower before he came over.

He hadn't missed a night.

At seven on the dot his car would pull up, displacing a certain amount of gravel in their driveway, and his long legs would swing out. His arm would come up to the roof, pulling his lean body out, as if he were too tired to push up with his legs. He'd arch his back in a stretch, let out a long breath—as if he'd been holding it since he got in the car—and look up at the house.

She liked to watch this little ritual of his. She was at the door, holding it wide open, in anticipation of his looking up to see her waiting. That's when his face broke from the remains of the day, and he'd smile.

He'd been quieter, tonight, than he normally was. He was starting to look more comfortable in her kitchen, leaning against the counter and stopping Lorelai from breaking the toaster when it wouldn't pop up the toaster pizzas and helping Rory talk her out of getting what she deemed fancier in her whims.

He'd also memorized the number to the pizza place and became on a first name basis with Joe, the delivery guy, when the toaster pizzas came out resembling carbon samples, not to mention his offer to replace the pair of socks he scorched when he unknowingly put the oven on preheat and she remembered too late where she'd left the socks she'd been looking for the last few months.

And still, he came.

It'd been weird, at first, she would be the first to admit. Her mother had developed the ability to keep one eye on him at all times, as if he might accomplish some act of sexual impropriety behind her back. He looked out of place slathering a piece of bread with peanut butter, as he was starving and claimed not to be able to wait for the pizza with everything on it they'd ordered to replace what was supposed to have turned out to be spaghetti and turned out to be over cooked mush with marinara.

She'd even offered to do it for him, feeling guilty at subjecting him to such sub par dining options after he'd offered to take her out to a real restaurant, but he let out a strangled laugh, kissed her cheek with sticky lips, and told her that he'd seen the genes she'd inherited and was wary to give her a knife. Pretending to be hurt, she held out in touching him for as long as she could, but in the end, she ended up where she always did—on the couch, with his head in her lap, watching some television show that Lorelai had added to his list of 'educational' experiences he'd missed out on. He dutifully watched and laughed at _Dark Shadows_, _SOAP_, and _AbFab_, holding out each night longer than Lorelai, who would retire when she reached the point of falling asleep sitting up, and he could finally reap his reward.

Rory still had trouble sometimes, understanding how in the world she became something he held so high.

They were relatively safe, tonight, with boxes upon boxes of Chinese food and _Band of Brothers_. Lorelai had acquiesced this once, letting him choose this first and auspicious time—saying that if she didn't enjoy what he brought it over, then the invitation would never be extended again. As if he didn't realize it was a test.

Well into the second hour, with over half of the egg rolls consumed, the phone rang. Having seen the mini-series before, and noticing how both women were staring more at the screen than their chopsticks, he rolled up, leaving a cool contrast in the wake of the warm spot his head had created on her thigh, and moved to answer the phone.

"Gilmore residence," he said, still eating out of the box of fried rice he'd taken with him off of the coffee table.

"Where is Lorelai?" came the foreign demand. "I do not have time to explain why I need to talk to her, just get her from whatever heart-clogging experience she is having and put her on the phone!"

"Uh, just a sec," he frowned and put the phone on the side table next to their answering machine. "Lorelai?"

Her eyes snapped up to meet his. "But Ross is so about to get his!" she whined.

"Mom, he's only Ross on _Friends_," Rory pointed out.

"Like you've not been expecting him to mention that they're on a break, for like, the last two hours?" Lorelai challenged.

Rory giggled, and he moved back toward the couch. "It sounds like an emergency—some French dude about to lose his mind?"

She rolled her eyes and stood up. "That's just… Michel," she sighed and moved to answer the phone, groaning as she went. "Hello? Okay, slow down and back up. Why are you wearing alligator shoes?" she giggled. "Okay, okay, why are they all wet? Well, take them off."

Tristan eased back down on the couch, sliding down so that his head rested back on her thigh, and his legs hanging over the arm of the couch. She looked down at him as he did his best to get comfortable on a couch that didn't really accommodate him. She lifted up her leg just barely, so he could slide one arm around it like a pillow, finally relaxing against her.

She leaned up, trying not to squish his head as she grabbed the remote to pause the DVD, partly because she didn't want her mother to miss out on anything important and partially to overhear better. He turned up to look at her, and she just smiled and indicated to listen.

"Why didn't you say that in the first place? … Well, did you call Jim? You have to call Jim! I don't care that it's after hours, just call him at home. UGH! Fine, I'll be right there, and I'll call him on my way over. Yes, I understand. No, I will not pay you extra to do that. Fine. Yes, stand on a chair. Just give me ten minutes!"

Rory turned, and he sat back up halfway as Lorelai commenced grabbing her purse and keys. "What's wrong?"

"Uh, a pipe burst, Michel wants me to buy him a new line of clothes, as apparently nothing he wears can come in contact with water," she babbled on.

"A pipe burst?" she reiterated.

"Yeah. And apparently, Michel isn't as good at sweet talking Jim as I am, so I have to get him to come out off hours and fix the pipe so our guests don't need canoes to get down the hall," she groaned.

"Can we do anything to help?" he offered.

Lorelai halted. The realization she was leaving them alone for an indeterminate amount of time washed over her as it occurred to Rory as well. "Not unless you can sweet talk my plumber into coming out without charging me double time? Or have some knowledge of the inner working of pipes that means I don't have to go through all the trouble?"

He shook his head. "Probably not."

"Well, seeing how I can, I'll field this one. You two stay, see if Ross is the first to die."

"I can leave it here, if you want to watch it later," he offered.

She gave a tight smile. "I'd like that. Okay. I'll call if I'm gonna be too late," she informed them, and then she was gone.

Silence engulfed them as they were left in the sudden absence of all that had been occurring just moments before—the Brothers on pause, waiting patiently on the screen, no one else about to come in from any other room. Just him, with his hand still palm up against the underneath side of her thigh, looking at her full on in the eyes.

"So," she said hesitantly.

"So."

She closed her eyes, a brief flutter as he squeezed the muscles running up from her knee, and felt the not so gentle pressure of his fingertips as he pulled his hand down her leg. "Should we keep watching?"

He shrugged. "If you want to."

"We can do something else, if you want," she hated knowing her eyes were bouncing from his lips to his eyes, wanting to appear calm and cool, but the pull of not having the chance to be truly intimate, in only the way being alone allows, for nearly a week having its way with her seemingly involuntary reactions.

She never thought she was the kind of girl to crave sex. To be honest, she thought that only boys had such afflictions, their inability to focus on anything but getting into a girl's pants stemming from some testosterone-induced rush of insanity. Maybe it was wrong to assume such things, or to deduce that he would be satisfied with nothing short of sex once it happened the first time, but that too, had been a misnomer.

Even some nights that they were alone in his mansion, parents off to the Rivera or Thailand or wherever was posh and happening to be at the moment, clothes remained on and all they did was touch. Yet somehow she was never left in need or want, despite the overwhelming urge that even the barest brush of his hand against her face welled up in her.

"Something," he took a breath and his eyes sparkled, "else?"

She nodded, breathless. "We could talk," she swallowed, hoping he'd shake his head with a knowing smile and let his hand slide back up her leg.

"Talking is good," he leaned in to kiss her lightly, not by any means trying to rile her up.

She shuddered, trying to squelch the stirrings she felt regardless. "So, how was your day?"

"Boring," he shot back. "Yours?"

"Busy," she swallowed. "Went to class, found out about a chance to tutor underprivileged fifth graders, spent an hour on the bus reading my assignment before helping Mom at the Inn until lunch, then I went over and spent a few hours doing inventory at the bookstore," she let out a sigh.

"And the reason you won't let me loan you a car so you don't have to waste all this time on the bus would be?"

"When else would I get my reading done?" she deadpanned.

He nodded, clearly amused. "Right."

"So, nothing exciting at all happened today?"

He shook his head. "Not until about five minutes ago."

"What happened five minutes ago?" her heart rate doubled at his words. Something about the way he said them, or the way she wanted him to mean them.

"I was given the increasingly infrequent benefit of an entire house alone with my very beautiful girlfriend," he murmured, leaning and crossing the line between talking and definitively not talking.

"Says the boy that wanted to talk," she leaned her head away, to give him more access to the points on her neck he was skimming with his lips.

"Talking was your idea, if you recall."

"We don't have to just talk," she leaned forward, her hand moving to his hair, threading her fingers up from the nape of his neck, mussing the slightly messy locks in an excuse to make contact. He nodded, meeting her lips even before she got the sentence out, and slid down off the couch, sitting in front of her on his knees. His hands wrapped around her back, pulling her up to the edge of her seat.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me you were taking summer courses," he kept up the guise of just talking, while his hands were clearly moving onto other activities. She did her best to focus on the topic of this conversation while exploring her, his hands on either side of her legs, inching toward her hips.

"Just two," she scooted forward more on her own, hooking her ankles underneath the curve of his ass. "Just to catch up."

He rolled his eyes, which directly contrasted with the way he picked up her arm and skimmed his lips along the soft skin from the underside of her wrist, up to her elbow. "You made the top three percent of our class. You've caught up."

"Not officially," she couldn't help the hitch in her breathing as she watched with mesmerized eyes, waiting for his next move. "Besides, they're always posting extracurricular activities on the student information board during the summer."

"Whatever. Does that mean you aren't free this Saturday? Or do you have some Harvard-impressing to do?" he let go of her arm, sliding both of his around to her backside and coming between her and the couch. She leaned forward, to get closer still. He took in a breath, as if swallowing his laugh, and she pinched him.

He put his forehead against hers, his eyes looking into hers more seriously. Her stomach lurched, the feel of something more on the verge of taking place flooding her body.

"Do you ever think of going somewhere else?" he asked quietly, as she brought her hands up to the back of his neck, weaving her fingers together and creating a hammock in which to hold him if he should lean away.

"Besides Harvard?" she asked, her tone uncertain.

He nodded slightly, his nose brushing her cheek as he did. "There are a few other options, you know."

"Not for me," she said, the script already well rehearsed from her lips. "It's the best choice for me."

His eyes narrowed at her words, but his hands didn't move. She itched to squirm one way or the other, as if to help his palms down the trail they'd begun just a few moments ago. Just up and around, and down, so far down….

"Why?"

She locked eyes on his, confused as to why in this moment, right now, when he could have anything he wanted, giving her something she needed at the same time, he was choosing this line of action.

"What do you mean, why? What's wrong with Harvard?"

His shoulder hitched up in a shrug, but he didn't let go of her. He was still close, so intimate, in her face. "I just wondered what set it apart from every other Ivy League school that would clamor to have you, when you made, what I can only imagine, was a behemoth pro/con list."

She couldn't meet his eyes. There was an intensity there, one she wasn't comfortable under the scrutiny of. It wasn't lust, she knew that for sure. If he wanted her, he had her in his grasp. He could have her, and his too. Right now, he only wanted answers.

"It has all the classes I want, and it'll take me where I want to go."

She had answers prepared.

"Yale, Brown, Princeton, Columbia," he began, a finger landing firmly against her spine as he listed each one off.

"What are you doing?"

"Listing off all the schools that meet your set criteria."

Now she locked eyes with him, though crossly. "I repeat, what is wrong with Harvard?"

"Have you ever even been there?"

He was going to be relentless, which she should have known, but she'd been blindsided by the whole turn of conversation. The moment her mother walked out the door, she had imagined his attention being focused on the here and now, not what might come years down the line.

"Why is that even relevant?"

She didn't know if she was angry because he wouldn't accept her answers as a final word on the subject, or if it was because he seemed more concerned with this conversation than the fact they were finally alone for the first time since the prior weekend. She took a deep breath and vowed to calm down. If he wanted an argument, she could provide a thought-out counter point.

"You'll be living there for four years. It's very relevant."

"Boston is a great town—you've even said that yourself."

"I do love Boston. But I'm not the one that's Harvard-bound."

"Is that what this is about? Harvard isn't good enough for the DuGrey family?"

She knew it was harder and lower than she'd meant to hit the moment she said it, before she felt him stiffen under her touch. He broke the binds of her fingers as he pulled back and stood up.

She looked up at him, waiting for the next scathing response that had no doubt already formed on his tongue, lightening fast as per usual.

"You wouldn't understand."

Now she was enraged. She was on her feet, now in his face. "I wouldn't understand what?"

His eyes flashed, as if he was putting distance between them, but she ignored the warning and took a step forward. "What happens if you don't get into Harvard?"

"Why wouldn't I get into Harvard? I've done everything in my power—," she began.

He put a hand up, another barrier, and cut her off. "I'm not saying you aren't the perfect student," he yelled. "I'm saying, if disaster struck, and you fucked up for once, and didn't get in," he reiterated, "what would happen?"

Her arms crossed over her chest. Images of what could happen to prevent her future from coming to her flooded her mind. "I… don't know," she stammered.

His voice softened. "You'd go to your second choice, and you'd be just as happy," he answered for her.

"I don't have a second choice," she muttered unhappily, her hands holding tight to her ribcage.

"No, I don't have a second choice," he yelled.

"So, this is about you? God, Tristan, why don't you preface every single session of double talk with some kind of sick disclaimer—'you think I'm interested in your well-being, but I'm just a selfish bastard!'" she matched his tone.

"You have options!" he yelled.

"And you're mad because I know what I want?"

"Do you?" he yelled back, grabbing hold of her arms.

"Yes!"

"Do you?" he asked again, tugging her toward him.

"Do you?" she tossed back at him, her vision a series of colors and shapes. He was too close again, and she just wanted to scream, or throw up, or cry… anything to let out the feeling that was building up inside of her.

"I know what I have to do," he said, unable to calm his breathing. "I'd have to burn Yale to its foundation to not get in."

"You're going to Yale?" she asked, the idea of leaving Chilton and going their separate ways settling into a crack in her mind, widening by the second. Her arms dropped out of their hostile stance, now sliding up his elbows as he continued to hold fast to her.

"What do you want?" he asked, for what felt like the millionth time, as things she hadn't considered melded together in her mind.

She looked up into his eyes, which were heavy with anger and questions, but there was something else, glimmering beneath the surface.

"I," she swallowed, feeling a pull between her bones and his. "I don't," she closed her eyes and shook her head. "I don't know."

What she knew was his strength, as he lifted her off the floor. She knew the texture and pressure of his lips against her skin, increasing and consuming, stealing her air. She knew the power of honesty as her back met her bedroom door hard, enough to jar her bones, had they not taken on a form more akin to Jell-O than keratin.

Her tears fell harder as he moved away from her mouth, the beads of salty moisture sliding first down her skin before transferring to his. All she could feel was heat and the sensation of falling into him. She didn't want to feel any part of her body that wasn't in contact with his, and he cradled her against him as he used his other hand to crudely rub against another area of damp heat. She swiveled and bucked, still not close enough to ease any ache.

"Rory," his voice was hoarse, from the yelling, she didn't know, but he sounded so worn and her eyes opened.

He was at the precipice, the dividing line, so close to giving her what she thought she'd wanted. Giving her the option.

"I love you," she said it quickly, faster than she thought she ever could, faster than her mind could doubt the meaning of it, the reasons behind it, to wonder if it was a good idea.

It was just as quickly that she went crashing over the dividing line, head on, shattering everything.

She'd never gotten the feeling before that he'd been holding out on her; holding back either his imagination or capabilities when they had sex. She hadn't been naïve enough to believe that his actions meant more than his words, or that the way he kissed her while he was inside of her was in any way some form of bond or testament of love.

She'd tried to convince herself, after she was alone and back in her own twin bed, that the same rules applied to her. That the first night that no was the furthest word from both her mind and lips and all she didn't want him to do was stop that it was just sex. Despite the fact she'd been taught that it took more than love to lose yourself that much, he'd not seemed to need to hear her say anything other but 'yes,' 'please,' and 'more.'

She'd been lying to herself.

It had been more than love. And until a few moments ago, she'd believed the fabrications, the carefully thought-out words that were simply guised as a safety net. Not that she doubted the words when he'd expressed them to her. But she'd been left no choice but to feel how much he meant it as she uttered the words so thoughtlessly and sincerely, having room for no other words in her body, heart, or mind in that moment. He took them in, making her find out what it was truly like to dissolve in someone else.

It was the night she discovered it was okay to lose herself to him in the process, because he was able to hold her. To evoke parts of her she couldn't reach herself. To make her feel alive to the point of bursting out of her body.

His hands were on either side of her face, her damp hair clinging against her temples. She couldn't blink; she couldn't tear herself away from his eyes from even the millisecond it took to flutter her eyelashes. Her breath matched his, syncopated and hard, his pelvic bone digging into hers from an angle she'd never considered as his lips found her shoulder, turning her, turning them, making her gasp as she held onto the side of her mattress, wishing for the brief moment thought was able to slip into her mind that they were on his vast expanse of a mattress instead of her slighter version.

Her knuckles went white as she rang in her finale with a triumphant cry, amazed at the immediate recoil, like an overcompensation of the wheel that sent her flying back in the other direction.

"Oh, fuck," she cried.

His lips were at her ear, a feat she could only imagine from the angle he still held her in. "Not this time," he assured her, barely getting the words out in time for her to feel his own body giving in, shuddering and shaking, his fingers deep into the flesh of her hips.

She found her way back into the cradle of his arms a while later, her head on his chest, though his head was positioned where she normally slid her feet under the covers each night. His hands slid against her skin, circling and soothing, though she could feel the vibration of his still-erratic heart beat.

"That was," she searched every elusive word that was held in her extensive vocabulary. Nothing seemed to encapsulate every last exquisite moment of what had transpired between them, in her case more than once.

"Did you mean it?" he asked, the irony of the situation striking her to the point of making her want to laugh. To her credit, she held it in to the point of a wide smile, looking down at him with only laughter in her eyes.

He let out a low growl, rolling them over so she was trapped on her back under his weight, the delight of every last inch of his skin pressed into hers. "I take that as a no," he ducked his head to hide his disappointment into her neck. She took her hands gently to cradle his face, bringing him up to face her again.

"I meant every word," she assured him. "This changes everything, doesn't it?"

He didn't answer her right away. "I don't know."

She looked at him questioningly, her mouth opened slightly in case her mind wrapped around what he meant in the lull, the breath he took before explaining.

"I don't know how this works. I just know I've never wanted to hear anyone say those words to me before."

She opened her mouth again, but he shook his head. "Before, about Harvard," he rested his chin on her shoulder.

"It's always been Harvard," she sighed.

"Do you feel it, like you feel this?" he trailed a hand down the midline of her chest, down her torso to a spot several inches below her belly button, where the tug of longing was anchored.

"I thought I did," she said honestly, "but lately, I'm realizing that what I thought was the right path might just have been what was the safe path."

"I have this thing, Saturday, I can't get out of. My parents are dragging me to New Haven, for this alumni dinner thing. I thought, if you wanted, we could go early, check out the school."

"Yale?" she asked, the very word sounding foreign to her.

"Maybe we can hit Boston in a couple weeks. Take off for New York in a month."

She shook her head and smiled. "I never thought you'd proposition to take me around to college campuses."

He smirked. "Yeah, well, there can be overnight stays involved, too. It isn't all in the pursuit of higher learning."

"What time are you gonna pick me up?"

He leaned back in for a kiss, lingering and full. She maintained the feeling of timelessness for as long as they could, only pulling themselves out of her bed and back into the world of World War II and pizza after her mother called to let her know she'd be back before midnight. By the time Lorelai walked back in the door, he'd fallen asleep in her lap for real, but she remained staring past the screen, deep in thought about the ideas that had opened up to her since he'd walked into the house that night.

He was opening up possibilities that she'd never imagined for herself.


	11. Thought I Heard You Sing

Title: Slipping Under The Surface

Chapter: 11—Thought I Heard You Sing

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I don't own anything buy my laptop, and trust me, you don't want this laptop…

Description: Sequel to Untouched… Another Trory… It starts out M because Untouched was M…

She had no magical powers.

At first glance she'd been just a girl in a blue blazer and a plaid skirt, one in the sea of hundreds just like her. Just a girl, made of flesh and bone, one of those that if his attention fell in her favor he could cause to come with such mind-blowing force that it could alter more than that moment for her, making her feel special because of the skill of just his thumb.

It was on second glance, however, that he knew none of that to be true. It was a flash of another kind of blue, cornflower and something else, curiosity perhaps, that made him sure she was different, want to know her name, and definitely want to use more than just a touch of his thumb to alter her existence.

He remembered the teacher asking for her name the first day he'd come back from the Janlan's first hospital stay. He'd had a heart attack, and Tristan had spent five days in intensive care watching monitors beep and listening to the doctor's dole out the new instructions for care this man who'd been impenetrable to follow if he wanted to live much longer. He'd expected to be focused solely on visiting his grandfather in the hospital as his life went on around him, yet somehow he had found himself thinking of the mythology behind the sirens that sat atop the cliffs of the Rhein, luring unknowing men in ships into the sharp cliffs, their watery deaths a sacrifice to beauty.

She said she'd answer to either name, Lorelai or Rory, but he could feel the uneasiness she felt carrying the full brunt of her given name. She was much more comfortable being differentiated; not as dangerous, not believing she had the power to control anyone.

He'd never admit it, but there was something hypnotizing about her eyes. He fell into them, aware that he was reacting to her words—so impassioned that he couldn't feel that he was yelling and pushing her too far—but realizing only after they had moved on to kissing so hard that her teeth pulled at his bottom lip that he'd crashed against the rocks, so happy was he to drown.

He didn't mean to start the fight. He never did. He didn't even know when, if there even was an exact moment, he pushed it past the point of conversation and into her need to put up defenses, to do her best to separate from him. Common questions turned into hostile answers and protective body language on both their parts.

They'd been having a typical night of late until the phone rang. He wouldn't lie and say the moment her mother left the house his mind hadn't foreseen them in her small, childhood bed with just enough room for them to work each other's body up to the point of no return.

He'd just had no conception that they'd never come back again.

He'd found out that his Saturday, one of the two days out of the week he wasn't held responsible for standing up to the family name, was to be spent at Yale with friends and colleagues of his parents. It was supposed to be an unsupervised day with his girlfriend. It was supposed to be the one day that he didn't have to push and pull himself to get to see her, racing to her small town as soon as he was done listening to powerful men listen to others tell them just how important they were and straining to stay awake longer each night, surviving on less sleep just to sit next to her whilst biding his time. Each evening spent playing the good boy, wishing it was harder and knowing it was impossible, while her mother remained conscious. His presence in that house was two-fold. He wasn't about to back out just because her mother didn't trust him with her daughter. No one was getting a say in this besides the two of them.

In fact, up until that point, he would have called the evening fun, even if in a relaxing sort of way. Homey wasn't a word he ever thought he'd use, but there was nothing sterile about the Gilmore house. Nothing in their house was for show—except maybe the monkey lamp and most kitchen utensils. He couldn't imagine a young Rory being yelled at that some things were to be looked at and not touched, as he'd been reminded so often. He was starting to feel like the boyfriend, like Lorelai's walls were cracking if just a little bit. Though he got the impression she wanted to give him the 'look but not touch' speech as well.

It was like a fucking dream come true when she actually left them alone for the night. His offer to help Lorelai out with burst pipes had perhaps been a little too over the top, though not insincere. Had both pair of blue eyes turned to him and expected him to go to the Independence Inn, he would have waded into the water and done as much as he could. But no way was he going to waste the opportunity fate had bestowed upon them.

The only thing on his mind, save for just how long it might take to fix a burst pipe, when she jokingly said she wanted to talk was getting around to asking her to join him at Yale, for the alumni dinner at which his parents had announced he would be joining them. They'd made it clear an escort was expected, and for once he would be happy to be able to oblige.

She'd never been very shy about proclaiming her love for Harvard. She spoke with the same passion his father wished he would speak about Yale. It was circumspect, the way she would declare it with such authority. And the closer he got to her, the more he saw the effects of her great desires to appease her elders, no matter how much it appeared she'd achieved it all on her own. She sounded more and more like what he would sound like if he had the need to please his own family.

He found himself on his knees on the floor. Her legs were spread wide enough to give him room to allow him play, but not enough to show him she meant business. She had no earthly idea how long it took to fix a pipe, and therefore had no concept of the kind of time they had to enjoy each other. His thoughts, however, had turned to the fact he'd never been so thankful for summer heat and loose cotton shorts. Her legs were smooth all the way to the hip, as if she'd been anticipating his hand's travels. Her knees drifted slowly apart the further he grazed, the kind of invitation every man hopes for.

He felt her ankles graze the bottom of his ass, and his immediate reaction was to squeeze his fingers into the muscles of her outer thighs. The inward pull he felt, like magnets in his hands being drawn to her core, made him pull away to the safety of fabric under his hands in the name of taking things slower. He picked up her arm, pressing his lips into the pulse point of her wrist, finding that if possible the skin there even softer than that of her legs. He knew there were words coming out of his mouth in the moments between skin-to-skin contact. He knew she was watching him, wondering where he was going to touch her next. He let her arm go and slid his hands back down, following the natural curves of her body down to where it blended into the couch cushion.

He'd been so close to just inviting her to join him, the words on the tip of his tongue, but she pinched him in retaliation for teasing her, replacing the taste of her skin with his curiosity as to why this girl that could literally do anything with her drive and determination was so set on one school at such an early date if not for prompting.

Suddenly his hands were locked in place, and her eyes were narrowing at him. He wouldn't back down, not from this. She shifted in discomfort, he was sure, underneath his hands. They were capable hands, both of them knew for sure, hence the source of her frustration and his assurance of getting an answer. He wasn't ready to continue. There were too many things she wasn't able to tell him at the current moment.

He gave her the benefit of the doubt, assuming at first she had made the decision on her own. He leaned his head in, his nose lightly bumping against hers. It could be so easy for her to finish this conversation. To let him crash into her, over her, against her.

Then he heard the words that she had to know would push him into the red zone. The ones that would threaten every last moment they'd spent, sitting next to each other in hospital waiting rooms, laying in bed with their breath stabilizing to the same cadence.

"Is that what this is about? Harvard isn't good enough for the DuGrey family?"

He couldn't touch her right now. He backed off, and she advanced on him. She was lashing out at him as she perceived him lashing out at her. He didn't formulate an answer, he just heard more words coming out of his mouth.

"You wouldn't understand."

It wasn't that Harvard wasn't the kind of school his family went to. Yale was steeped in tradition for them, as Harvard was for other equally ranking families, making it superior in his father's eyes only by their attendance. She had no such ties, and perhaps he even believed that she couldn't understand. What he really wanted was her so flustered that she spoke the truth; the nasty, ugly truth that she would run a marathon to put enough distance between her and the discomfort of things she was truly afraid of. Things she couldn't run from.

He wondered if she could outrun him.

They were holding onto each other suddenly, him not wanting to find out if she even wanted to run. He could maybe withstand her not telling him things, if she just stayed. He felt a surge of relief as he felt the hard twinge of sharpness from where her fingernails were dug against his bones. Then he saw the look of realization as she reacted to the fact he was Yale-bound, come hell or high water.

It was always hell he imagined.

He lifted her off the floor, her body whole and hot against his. Her fingers curled around his shoulders, ready for whatever ride he was going to take her on. He was fairly sure there were no more words, as his lips were over hers, not allowing her so much as a gasp before he stole her breath. One hand that supported her had slid underneath her t-shirt, and as soon as he was able to use her bedroom door as a pivot point, he moved it roughly down to her hip, dipping her waistband lower. Her lips were at his ear, whispering words he finally heard with clarity.

"Please," she shook in his arms, and he was suddenly hyper aware of a hot drop of moisture that hit his forearm on the side where her head was tilted. He watched her in confusion as she cried harder, not wanting him to stop, asking him to continue.

His cheek was wet, from where she'd been crying while his face was pressed into hers. She kissed him hard, filled with salty lust, and his hand reached down underneath the cotton shorts, brushing over a growing damp spot on the front of her panties. He moaned into her mouth, not able to hold her and touch her the way he needed to in this position. He cradled her against him, coming to a rest again over her on the mattress that his feet would hang off of if he ever tried to stretch out in search of comfort.

"Rory," his voice seemed to catch her attention as her eyes opened and focused on his through still-fresh tears. He could feel the strain on his voice, from the yelling, from holding back words that she couldn't return, despite knowing his body was on the verge of betraying him by allowing them to be spoken, regardless. Having sex with her wasn't something he could blank out during. Had any other girl burst into tears in his arms, he could have just pulled his pants back up and left without a word. With her he tasted the emotion that was pouring out of her, desperate to understand what was going through her head. He could feel words in his throat, but before he could open his lips again, she spoke.

"I love you."

His lips hit hers, rough and determined, the bottom edge of his teeth clinking against hers as she had no room for reaction, save for opening her mouth wider to accommodate him. The removal of all remaining clothes was not a part of the foreplay, as it tended to be with them. Then again, he'd be hard pressed to point out an activity that couldn't be viewed as foreplay with them. He moved fast, not wanting her to think about what she'd said, to be embarrassed or able to slow down. He pulled her up against his chest, keeping her from lying down again, from being passive in any way. Her legs rubbed up and down the sides of his torso as he moved in and out of her, and her hands pushed down against his chest. Changing positions happened in the name of prolonging the moment, as he grabbed the back of her thigh. Her back hit the mattress at an angle, her fists balling up sections of her quilt for support, accomplishing only the hastening of the inevitable end. He dipped down, to the side of her, not giving her a second to adjust. Her face contorted, to the point he nearly slowed down to check if it was too much, if he was hurting her.

Then he heard her. Her lips were in his ear, she was so close that if she'd just mouthed the words he could have felt the same impact.

"Oh, fuck!" he heard as she gave a hard, almost spasmatic reaction to his body.

"Not this time," he said, pushing it harder, faster, making her cries louder. He was still chasing her, but this time, she'd reached out for him first.

She finally felt tangible.

XXXX

He had the sunroof open in the car, and the white light of the moon cut across her profile that cast the far side of her face in a shadow, making it invisible to him. She kept one hand on his thigh, but she failed to look his way or initiate a line of conversation.

She was giving him half of her. What's worse was he'd known it the second she emerged from her house when he came to pick her up that morning. She'd looked at him so quickly, but kept her head dipped down as if she should be ashamed to leave her home to get into his car. Her mother appeared on her heels, but didn't leave the safety of the porch as Rory got into the door he'd pushed open for her.

Lorelai hadn't said anything in front of him, but he'd gotten the impression she'd said quite enough before his arrival. She'd been to thank, no doubt, for the version of his girlfriend that had accompanied him all day. The one that listened to the tour guide that his mother had set them up with, asking questions about libraries and journalism classes, laughing at inane jokes about stuffed dogs, and sitting on historic benches.

He'd pulled her into an eave, one of thousands on campus, secluding them from sight but not sound of other passersby—freshman orientating themselves and high school students looking in awe mixing with the summer class students that were out for whatever reason on a Saturday morning, most likely coming from wherever they'd been the night before, too bleary eyed and hung over to notice the lost and enamored. He put his own back against the building and wrapped his hands lightly around her waist.

Her eyes were already closed as she leaned in to kiss him. Giving him what she assumed he wanted. He brushed her lips lightly and pulled her against his chest in a hug. Her head nestled against his shoulder.

"What happened with Lorelai?"

She stiffened. "Nothing."

"Rory, come on."

"We should catch back up with the tour guide. The main library was supposed to be the next stop."

"Did you fight?"

She looked down. "It's not a big deal."

"Clearly."

"Can we just enjoy the campus? That's why we came here, right?"

"Actually, I came because my parents gave me little choice, short of landing myself in prison without bail. You're here to be my arm candy."

Her eyes narrowed. "Tell me you're kidding."

He smirked. "You mind? I mean, it has its perks. Think about it, your whole purpose today is to distract me. There are lots of fun ways to distract me."

"You really brought me here to have something to play with?"

He sighed. "You know better than that."

"I thought I did," she bit her lip and remained quiet for several seconds. Deciding his fate.

"Tonight was mandatory, I didn't," he began.

"You know what, it doesn't matter. This is part of it, isn't it?" Her eyes shone with a new understanding.

He nodded slowly, not quite sure what she thought she meant. "I guess."

"So, what now?"

"You wanted to see the library. After that we could hit the school of journalism. I could give a much better tour than the one the guy that didn't even realize he lost two of his charges was giving."

She shrugged. "Sure."

It'd been the longest conversation they'd had all day. She'd continued to take care in what she saw, drinking in every last detail about her surroundings. He'd seen her put the brochures into her purse, inside the front cover of _Wuthering Heights_, which was being reread for probably the fifth time if he knew her, so as not to crease the paper. His had gone into the nearest recycling container, leaving his hands free to hold hers the rest of the day as he guided her from building to building.

They'd arrived at his parent's hotel room after they'd exhausted their search of the campus, including a just off-campus pub that he'd always found promising, to change into their evening wear. His mother and father were nowhere to be found, but undoubtedly in the ballroom downstairs looking perfectly coiffed and poised. He tossed his shirt across the king-sized bed and turned to face her as she clutched the hanging bag she'd laid out on the backseat of his car hours earlier.

"They aren't coming back. No need for modesty now."

He came over to her and unzipped the bag. He pulled out the dress she would change into and tossed it onto the bed next to his shirt. Her empty hand went to her hip. "I'm changing in the bathroom."

"I promise I won't touch you. I'll just sit back and watch," he let his hands fall from her shoulders, all the way down the outside of her arms.

She leaned forward and picked up her dress. In the next instant she turned for the bathroom, and he slid his body easily between her and the entrance.

"You do realize I've seen you naked, right?"

Her mouth dropped open. "Yes, but your parents haven't."

He rolled his eyes. "They're downstairs talking charitable donations and asking how big their names can be displayed on plaques hung in their honor. My father wouldn't interrupt a conversation involving his name being prominently displayed if the apocalypse started."

"Can we just get through this?"

She was way past agitated—he felt like he'd skipped a step.

"Get through what?"

"The dinner, the trophy girlfriend thing. You know, after this, I think I'm done."

"Done?" he leaned down closer to her, his eyes intent on her lips. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means, I thought this was about more than just foreplay."

"You think these dinners get me off?"

"I don't know what to think, anymore," she shook her head. "I need to change."

"Is this about me, or is this about your mom?"

"Leave my mother out of this," she snapped. "Apparently everything is about you," she spat out.

"What the fuck does that mean?" he demanded.

"Look, you wanted me here, you got me here. Can't we just get this over with?"

"What exactly are you accusing me of?"

Her body relaxed a bit, and she looked up at him, as if allowing him to look into her eyes could answer his questions. Maybe she was waiting for a confession, but damned if he knew what she expected him to say.

"Do you want to just leave?"

"We can't," she sighed. "Your parents."

"Forget my parents. Nothing they do affects you."

"Oh, get off it, Tristan."

"No," he crossed his arm over the doorway. "My parents aren't the problem here, where as your mother clearly has wormed her way into your head when it comes to where we stand."

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"Yeah, you're paying plenty of attention to the mascot and the buildings and the old books in the libraries," he listed.

"Kind of the point of visiting a college."

"Like you're going to give it a shot."

Her lips set in a line, and she moved under his arm, shutting him out of sight. He dropped his head down and to the side, noticing her dress lying limply against the perfectly made bedspread. He let out a groan and banged his head against the door.

"Rory, come on!"

Silence met his plea, and he hit the door with an open palm. He put his back against it, trying to think of what it would take; what would get her to open that door.

"It doesn't matter, okay? It doesn't matter what Lorelai said, or why you came. I'm just glad you're here."

It was dichotic—the frustration and loud decibel of his voice not quite matching the feelings he was trying to convey. He let out a groan at their general inability to have a normal conversation, and decided maybe it was just best to bide his time. Wait her out.

When she finally opened the door, she was standing in her underwear. She didn't meet his eyes as she took her time in walking across his line of view and shimmying into the thin dress. She swung her hair over one shoulder and flicked her eyes up to his at last.

"Zip me up?"

He didn't dare speak as he moved silently to put his fingers around the cool metal at the base of her spine. Without thinking, he dipped his head in to kiss the base of her neck, the small section of spine that curved out, as if calling to him. He inched the teeth together, coming to the final tiny metal hook. The line of her bra was still visible over the top of the edge of the dress, and he gently unhooked the two sets of hooks and unfastened the two ends of lace from each other.

She turned in surprise as the garment became loose against her skin. He ran his finger across the skin where the bra had been. "You don't need it."

She slipped the straps off her shoulders and tossed the bra onto her folded clothes. "Do I look like eye candy?" she did a small turn for his approval.

He shook his head. "You look," he kissed her shoulder.

"Stop," she whispered. "We'll be late."

He pulled her against him for a long beat, not caring if she was wrinkling the suit he'd slipped into in the interim of waiting for the door to open.

Her bra now lay on his backseat, mingled with the rest of their clothes. He turned off the car and leaned his head back against the soft leather of the headrest. She clasped her hands together in her lap, which was comprised of a pool of blue fabric.

"I should get in."

"We have a few minutes."

"She's not blind, Tristan, she can see your car."

She looked out the window that they could both see out of, but no one could peer back into. He reached out and brushed her hand with two fingers.

"What happened today?"

She looked up at him and frowned. "Nothing, I don't know."

He waited, with this half answer, for her to either continue or simply leave the car. His dissatisfaction wouldn't be assuaged by following her into the house and hashing it out in front of her mother. She could leave him like this, not understanding the shifts of her moods, allowing them to wonder if he would be so anxious for an explanation in the morning. If she could really push him away.

"I didn't expect…" she started again, slower this time. "I didn't know what to expect, I guess."

"From tonight?"

"From today, seeing the campus. I wasn't supposed to like it," her shoulder hitched up on one side, as if she was trying to shift away from her feelings.

"Okay," he frowned.

"I told myself I wouldn't do that, change my mind because I found out that's where you were going."

"That's not," he spoke up.

"I know," she looked at him quickly. "At first, I wasn't sure, but I know now. You wanted me to come tonight. But Mom," she shook her head.

"She was mad that I took you to Yale?" he felt like he'd grabbed the smallest section of a thread, hoping it wouldn't slip through his fingers.

"I'm supposed to go to Harvard, and do all the things she didn't do. I mean, we've spent all this time with her, all summer so far, trying to make her comfortable with us, and she's still afraid that by being with you, I'm gonna fall off that track."

"By deciding to go to another Ivy League school?" he reiterated, still in disbelief. She sounded so serious, so troubled, but getting into multiple top schools hardly sounded like every mother's nightmare.

"It's more than that, okay?" she looked away again.

"She's just bent on hating me," he clarified.

"No! I told her," she rushed the words, but got caught on an intake of breath.

"Told her what?"

"About last night. About what I said."

Was he supposed to make this easy for her? She sure as hell wasn't making this easy on him. Being in a relationship with someone, something more than just having a familiar warm body to frequent, wasn't on his to-do list. In fact, it pretty much interfered with the whole living his life before he became his father thing. Having her mother so insistent on hating him just for having a heartbeat and putting up with her constant need to push him away wasn't any incentive to hold her hand and tell her everything was going to be okay. He knew what he felt for her was strong, but he didn't know if it would keep them together or tear them to shreds.

"Why?"

"Because we were talking about going to Yale today, and why we needed to go early to check out the campus when I'm going to Harvard anyhow," she swallowed. "And, it just, came out."

"That you love me?"

She nodded. "That didn't go over so well."

"So, now she thinks I said it to you to get in your pants—am I right?"

"I didn't tell her that you'd told me that, just that I'd told you."

"So now I'm the prick that fucks you and doesn't even have the decency to lie and say I love you before your bra ends up on my backseat?"

"And for this, I defended you," she spat out, looking at him with disgust.

"No, you defended you," he bit back. "You don't care that your mother hates me, in fact, you kinda like it."

"You're cracked!"

"It makes it riskier, hotter," he baited her. "Every time she undercuts me, the more likely we are to end up half-dressed and horizontal."

"Hardly."

"You're right. Half-dressed usually means vertical with us."

"Look at that, time to go," she reached for the door handle and opened it for herself. A second later the back door opened and she was rummaging around, sorting out her clothes from his.

He could have stopped her, said something, gotten out of the car, but he just watched her toss his shirt back down when she picked it up in the dim light of the dome lamp and flutter her eyes back at him one last time before closing the door.

She couldn't see him any more, but he could still see her. He watched as she tucked her bra between her shirt and shorts before she opened the front door at midnight and not a second later.

XXXX

He wasn't surprised he hadn't heard from her. Just like he knew if he was the one to call her, she would walk right past the phone with a burning sensation at the base of her throat and just enough will power to let it go to the answering machine.

He hung up after the sound of her mother's curt voice telling him that if he promised to leave her good news, she'd call him back. He had no intention of giving her the satisfaction of knowing the seeds of guilt she'd planted in her daughter had sprouted into a sleepless night for him, which was the only good news he could imagine she'd want to hear from him.

He didn't make plans on Sundays. Most found him with her, eating late lunches at Luke's Diner and taking walks out to a rickety bridge that was mostly out of the public eye in her small town, which for the most part seemed to be on constant closed-circuit television. Today his car took an unfamiliar right where it wanted to take a left, and he pulled into a mostly filled parking lot and looked up at the large building.

He was still pissed enough to think this was a good idea, and armed with only his self-righteousness he made his way through the front entrance of the Independence Inn.

"Excuse me," he stopped a bellman. "I'm looking for Lorelai Gilmore."

"Uh, check the kitchen," he offered a helpful smile.

"I think she's the General Manager," he added.

"Yeah, she just got in. First stop, coffee pot."

"Right," he nodded. "Thanks," he slipped the guy a bill out of his wallet and turned toward the desk. A bored, unpleasant man in an impeccable suit was on the phone, and as he approached he heard the familiar accent. As much fun as Rory'd told him it was to mess with the concierge, he wasn't in the mood to be delayed.

He pushed the swinging door to the kitchen open slightly, immediately hearing her voice that signaled she was just out of view.

"She'll come around, Lorelai, she always does," came a very perky and encouraging voice.

"I don't know, Sook. She went to Yale. Yale, God, I can't even wrap my brain around it. We haven't even toured Harvard yet. I should have taken her already," she chided herself.

"In all your spare time? Besides, she's going to Harvard. Seeing other schools first will just give her something to compare its greatness to."

He began to wonder if he was listening to her talk with the angel on her shoulder. Surely the devil would kick in soon, and it would be mentioning his name.

"It's him," she mumbled.

"Him? You mean Tristan?"

"She told him she loved him. Which means all her good sense is completely gone. Dad knows his grandfather, which probably means Yale is in their blood, and he thinks he can keep a hold of her for the next two years. Did I tell you the ego this kid has? He'd be hard pressed to get his head through the front door," she managed, leaving the widest, most appropriate moment for him to push the door all the way open and stand in the doorway. A red-head with a whisk in one hand and a metal bowl in the other looked up in surprise, but nothing equal to the look that flashed across Lorelai's face.

"Your daughter deflated me last night," he announced.

"Um, Sookie, this is Tristan," she stood up straight from her crouched position over the counter top, still holding a mug of coffee.

"Danish?" Sookie held out a platter of assorted pastries, but he smiled and waved his hand.

"Thanks. Actually, I was hoping to speak with Lorelai for a minute, if you're not too busy."

"Sure," she nodded and took a step. "Care to go for a walk?"

He nodded silently and followed her back out of the front entrance of the establishment, with the sounds of an angry Frenchman trying to explain the cancellation policy to the unfortunate that was on the other end of the phone line. They didn't speak until their feet were falling against a dirt path along a lake.

"You know, I don't care that you hate me," he began.

"I don't hate you," she said it as if the words were being extracted from her mouth by a dentist. "I just have a few reservations."

"I haven't made her do anything she didn't want to do."

She closed her eyes. "So, we're talking about this."

"Yeah. I figure better you air your issues with me than going off on her in my absence."

"Excuse me, I did not go off on her," she said crossly, as she stopped and turned to face him. "We have an open door policy at our house, which I'm sure is unfamiliar to you, but she chooses what to tell me, and I actually listen."

"Don't presume to know me," he rolled his eyes. "Just because I come over to see Rory while you're there, that doesn't mean that you've taken any time to understand me."

"I know enough," she sighed. "I grew up in a house like yours, I dated guys like you. Rory's father pulled all the same crap you pull on a daily basis. He hated the life his father was holding over his head just as much as I hated the life my mother wanted for me."

"So you hate me because I remind you of your ex? That's mature."

"I feel the need to lie on a leather couch and hear some little German man tell me I have penis envy," she muttered, he assumed to herself.

"Look, can we just cut to the chase, here?"

Her eyes snapped up to his. "Fine. What do you want?"

"I want to know what you think I'm trying to do to her."

"It's what you're already getting her to do!" she threw her hands up in the air. "Before she started dating you, she was going to Harvard, she was focused on her studies, and I didn't have to explain to her that condoms weren't enough when it comes to birth control."

"I'm not going to get her pregnant," he growled.

"Oh, so you're not having sex with my daughter?" she blinked.

He looked down at the ground.

"Don't make promises to me you can't keep, especially when it comes to my kid. You have no idea what it takes to have a kid at your age. I had no idea what it took—I got lucky 'cause I got Rory."

"I didn't come here to make promises to you, I came here to find out what you think I've done to her, and last I checked, I haven't done anything to hurt her."

She looked at him. "I just want her to be happy. I hate the idea of her throwing her life away to be with you."

"How inspiring," he added.

"I don't want Max to be right," she blurted. "I'm sorry, I don't. But when she started defending you and talking about sex and Yale, it's just—it's too much."

He nodded. "You need time."

"I need a sedative," her eyes flashed at him.

"Is it my turn?"

"Your… turn? Who said you get a turn?"

"I want you to stop making her feel guilty for being with me."

"I don't--," she began.

"She wouldn't talk to me. All day. She talked to tour guides and my parents friends and admissions officers, but I got maybe two words."

"You can't blame me for her being pissed at you."

"You two fought about the Yale thing."

"That's more than two words," she pointed out.

"I know her. She didn't tell me; I was, believe it or not, smart enough to figure it out on my own. I knew going to her wasn't going to do me much good, so I came to the source of our problem."

She looked down for a long moment, swallowed, then looked back up at him in scrutiny. "Do you love her?"

His eyes widened. He gave a curt nod, which she returned.

"That's what I was afraid of," she said softly and turned to step away from him.

"Lorelai," he called out.

"I need to go talk to Rory."

"But," he felt the rise of frustration boiling up all over again. For all the talking they'd done, nothing had been settled. She still hated him, and he still needed to hear she'd let them make their own mistakes.

"I can't save you guys from being sixteen or so far wrapped up in each other that you can't break out of the spell that has you believing that you'll always be young and in love and untouchable," she seemed overwhelmed by emotion. "But I can do my damnedest."

He frowned but watched her walk away. He stared out over the water for a few minutes, as if entranced. He was left with the question of if Lorelai's fears were actually set to play out. If his desire under to be with her was overcoming both his natural instincts and hers as well.

If she was under his spell, she was taking him down with her.


	12. Denial Ain’t Just a River in Egypt

Title: Slipping Under The Surface

Chapter: 12—Denial Ain't Just a River in Egypt

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I don't own anything buy my laptop, and trust me, you don't want this laptop…

Description: Sequel to Untouched… Another Trory… It starts out M because Untouched was M…

He was not to be denied.

She knew it would be incessant and difficult to do, each time she pressed ignore on her cell when his number popped up on her caller ID. She knew it was a matter of time before he came to her very door, surrounding her with his presence, making it harder and harder to keep him at bay.

She didn't even know why she was mad at him.

She only knew that she couldn't see him right now. She needed to be alone. It'd been a stroke of luck that she was sitting in her room uninterrupted for the last hour, victim only to her own thoughts. Her mother had left with only word of the fact she'd be at the Inn if needed, and after four unanswered phone calls Tristan hadn't called in the last hour and a half. With every passing moment that her phone stayed silent, anxiety grew in her stomach as to what his next action would be.

The fact that he might just stop trying was the most gripping fear.

It seemed so improbable that this was her life—that these were her concerns. Before all this happened getting into Harvard and catching up with her former status as the top student in her class while balancing her duties as Stars Hollow volunteering princess occupied her time, while allowing her to sleep very well at night.

She was tossing and turning a lot more these days. Last night, in particular. Visions of seeing herself at Yale, seeing herself with him, intermixed with real life concerns that didn't lend themselves to her former existence. All the things her mother warned her about—getting pregnant and finding herself suddenly very alone, specifically. No matter how much she loved him now, she couldn't hold onto that if forced to drop out of school and work to support a baby on her own.

It was then she realized she needed to know if it was worth it. She was punishing him for loving her.

A knock came to her door, and she looked up to see she had been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn't heard her mother come back home. Lorelai came into her room, looking with great empathy at her distressed daughter, and skipped the polite questions. She sat on the mattress next to Rory and wrapped her arms around her.

"Tristan came by the Inn."

"I don't really want to talk about it right now," she shrugged her shoulders in, caving her body in on itself.

"I'd like to ignore this too, but I have blonde boys dropping by my place of business to discuss it. I take it he hasn't come by here?"

Rory shook her head and bit her lip. She was adamant not to talk about it, not to even think any more about it.

"He hasn't called or anything?"

"No, he called," she felt her voice betraying her.

"Are you upset with him?" she tried, earning only another shrug of the shoulders. "Did you two fight?"

"Not really," she scratched her collarbone lightly. "It's … complicated."

"He made it sound like you two had fought."

Rory looked up at her mother in surprise. "You talked to him?"

"He didn't give me much choice. He interrupted coffee hour," she sat back a bit, looking as taken aback by Rory's reaction as she had been by the impromptu visit by the angsty blonde teen.

"Another one was rolling around, wasn't it?"

"Hey, it was the first one of the day. You don't pull the mask off the Ol' Lone Ranger, and you don't mess with the first cup of the day."

"Okay, Jim," she rolled her eyes.

"Hey, how 'bout this? You tell me why Casanova came knocking at my door today, blaming me for making you not trust him."

Rory could feel her eyes well up. Tears pulled at the corners of her eyes and heat stung her, forcing her to blink. "He said that?"

"This isn't about what he said," she put a hand on Rory's shoulder. "This is about us. I didn't mean to freak out on you like that."

"I know."

"No, I don't think you do. I see you doing things, things that in and of themselves aren't bad. They're normal and good and things you deserve. I want you to be happy and experience good things in life."

Rory nodded.

"But I have this filter, and it's like I see all the disastrous possibilities that can play out from even the best of things. Like going to check out a campus, apparently."

"I was just going with him, he thought I'd enjoy seeing the campus since I've never been."

"That's why you fought?"

"We didn't fight!" she balled up her fists and let them collide with the mattress. "At least, not like you think we did."

"How do I think you fought?"

"You think he yelled and I ran away."

Lorelai made a noise of absurdity with air bursting out of her lips. "Honey, I've seen you in a fight. We had one recently, remember? I know if there was yelling, you were taking part."

Rory crossed her arms. "I was horrible to him."

"He lived. He even sought out what he thought was the source of it."

"How can I make it better when I don't even know why I made it bad in the first place?"

She knew she was breaking the pact with herself, asking for answers from the one person that, if she did have them, wouldn't want to impart her with them. Lorelai had always set out to protect her, keep her from things that might make her miserable. But Lorelai couldn't save her from all of this.

"I mean, does it get easier?"

"Does what get easier?" Lorelai hadn't even ventured an answer before Rory bombarded her with the second question.

"I get that just loving someone isn't always enough," she looked down, hating the ache she felt in her chest at admitting such a thing. "But how do you know when it is enough?"

"Are you sure you love him?" Lorelai was pleading with her daughter; using her eyes, her voice, the way she gripped her hand.

Rory nodded. "With Max, how were you sure it was right?"

"Uh, you just know," she faltered for a moment and didn't meet her eyes. "You find someone that wants the same things you do, and you just know."

"That sounds vague."

"Is this about Yale?"

Rory shook her head. "I don't know. We were there, and it was amazing. It was how I'd always pictured college, except it wasn't Harvard, but still, in my mind, it was the same," she bit her lip.

"I've meant to take you before now," Lorelai smiled sadly.

"I just started wondering, did I like it because I liked it, or did I like it because I knew he would be there," she admitted. "I got so mad at myself, then I took it out on him. I barely spoke to him all day, and when I did, I put words in his mouth and twisted the ones I let him get out."

"He must love you, coming out here for more," Lorelai rubbed a hand over her back.

"I don't want to see him until I'm sure what I want."

"Oh, Honey," Lorelai hugged her. "You may never be sure what it is that you want—or why you want it."

Rory looked up in panic. "What?"

"I just mean, if you really do love him," she drew out her words, "then it's going to worm its way into your decisions about things. It's going to make you decide that spending time with him is worth giving up study time, it's going to make you decide that sleeping with him is worth straining our relationship or chancing getting pregnant, and it's going to make you want to go to school where he does. And you'd hate yourself later, if you didn't take those chances."

"You think I should talk to him?"

"I think," she took a deep breath. "That if you really feel strongly about something, then it's going to work out for you. No matter the reason."

Rory sat back against her pillows and considered her mother's words.

"I don't want to go back to work and leave you here, upset."

"I'm okay," she began. "I will be."

"You still have years to decide where to go to school. By the time you graduate, there could be another boy that's pulling your heart strings back to Harvard," she offered, in an attempt to be encouraging, but it only made her chest hurt more.

Rory nodded feebly. "I'll keep you posted."

Once she was alone again, Rory looked at her cell phone. He hadn't made another call or left a text, and she wondered if he'd given up trying to contact her altogether. She'd missed her chance for him to come to her, and if she wanted to make sure it wasn't another guy prompting her future decisions, she'd have to be the one to go to him.

XXXX

He'd decided on pancakes.

He knew the local diner was probably off-limits, as the owner didn't seem to like him much as it was. He was hungry, frustrated, and in no mood to beg for food. There were a surprising number of choices for restaurants, all of them somewhat quirky in nature. He roamed around for a while, noting it was too early for burgers or pie, and he finally saw the sign for the pancake house. Al's Pancake World.

It wasn't until he studied the menu, which was nothing more than a thin paper flier, that he realized he would have been much safer arguing with Luke in the diner.

"What can I get for you?"

He looked up at the waitress. "Is this your full menu?"

She nodded. "The manicotti's very popular right now."

"It's eight in the morning."

She shrugged. "We serve it all day."

He licked his bottom lip and decided to try again. "This is a pancake house, isn't it?"

She nodded. "It is."

"Great. I'll take a stack, with bacon on the side."

"Try Luke's Diner," she tapped her pencil against the thin tablet.

He frowned.

"Manicotti comes with garlic bread and salad."

"Whatever," he handed the flier to her, and she scribbled on her notepad, ironic as she was the one to order for him. His hand was on his cell phone with lightening speed when it rang, not because it might be socially unacceptable to have a phone ringing in a restaurant, but because it might be her.

"Hello?"

"Tristan, where are you?"

"It's Sunday."

"I realize this. I thought you might like to take in a round of golf."

"I don't enjoy golf."

"The point isn't to enjoy it, son," Janlan brushed the notion aside. "Rory can come, if she would like. I can call Richard, perhaps."

"I wouldn't reserve a tee time."

"I realize it's your one day this week that you don't have to deal with family," Janlan sighed. "But I would like to speak to you."

"Concerning?"

"Your summer vacation."

"We had this talk in May. As I recall, you did most of the talking that resulted in my sitting in an office nine hours a day while people suck up to me to get a promotion out of you."

"Got any names for me?" Janlan joked.

"My summer's set. Thanks."

"A man can't work without play, Tristan."

"You don't say," he began, but was promptly cut off.

"I've yet to put in a call to Richard, as means of not ambushing you again," he cleared his throat, "but I had an idea you might like some leisure time away with Rory."

"Unnecessary, but thanks."

"Unnecessary?"

"I don't like to travel with people who aren't speaking to me."

"She isn't speaking to you?"

"Not at the moment, no."

"What did you do?"

"Excuse me?"

"What," he paused with a huff, "did you do?"

"Nothing."

"Bull shit," he called. "You're a Dugrey man, and we are prone to saying exactly the wrong thing at the right time to piss off a woman. If you tell me what you did, I can tell you how to undo it."

"Alright, fine," Tristan leaned his forehead against the palm of his free hand. "I took her to Yale."

"As in, the university?"

"That would be the one."

"This upset her?"

"It did indeed."

"Richard went to Yale. Gilmores are as much a part of Yale history as Dugreys are."

Tristan rolled his eyes as his grandfather went on in his own mind, the same level of bafflement as he endured, but in much different lines of thought.

"I thought you said you'd tell me how to fix this."

"I'm going to need more details."

"There aren't any. I asked her to be my date for that Alumni dinner Mother and Father dragged me to, and since she likes libraries and schools so much, I agreed to go on one of the tours Mom's always trying to get me to go on."

"I take it she wasn't impressed."

"She loved it," he said with remorse.

"I'm an old man, Tristan," Janlan warned.

"She wants to go to Harvard."

"Yale is a finer school than Harvard, and she's a legacy at Yale. Richard's connections alone, not to mention mine, they make it impossible for her not to get in."

"She doesn't care about any of that."

"Talk to her. I'll give Richard and Emily a call, surely she'd listen to them if they sat her down and explained point by point the reasoning," he spoke reasonably and with measure.

"She wants to go to Harvard, and she thinks I took her along to Yale to get her to change her mind. To be with me."

"Did you?"

"For short term? Yes. To be my date for the evening. My going to Yale has nothing to do with… I will be with her, no matter where we end up."

Silence met his statement, only the faint sounds of cooking and plate setting coming from the kitchen. He'd never known his grandfather to be speechless before.

"Talk to her."

"I've tried."

"Try again, damn it," he grunted.

"Granddad," he sighed.

"So, you're just giving up?"

"I didn't say that. But not giving up doesn't necessarily entail me talking to her right this very moment, either."

"I'll call Richard."

"Just, stop, okay? I don't need you to jump in and fix every mistake I make."

It was at that moment that the waitress came back with a full table setting of salad, bread, and a plate of what appeared to be manicotti made of blue Play-Doh. "What is this?"

"Manicotti, what you ordered," she reminded him.

"It's blue," he stared at it and gently poked it with a fork.

"Al's special recipe."

"What's the secret ingredient?" he asked, still too concerned to attempt a bite.

"It's a secret. Enjoy your meal."

"Where are you?" Janlan asked, having overheard the conversation.

"I'm in Stars Hollow."

"I thought you weren't going to talk to her."

"I came to talk to Lorelai."

"The mother?"

"Also known as the reason Rory won't speak to me."

"I really think you should let me call Richard."

"So you can sit the two of us down and make us discuss things like civilized adults?"

The sarcasm in his voice was enough to dissuade his grandfather from further probing. "So, perhaps we can discuss the vacation you'd like to take over dinner on Wednesday?"

"I'll be there as usual."

"And, should circumstances change, I don't need notice if you decide to bring a guest."

"I appreciate that."

Tristan hung up his phone and looked at the travesty that had become his breakfast. His stomach growled, despite the fact that the food that was before him looked like a toddler had prepared it, and he cut into the pasta.

"I wouldn't eat that, if I were you."

He looked up to see her standing at the edge of his table in the same clothes that she'd been wearing when he dropped her off the night before. She'd pulled on a light jean jacket over the thin dress she'd worn to impress the Yale alumni.

"Mom ate it last week, and it took her three days to recover."

He put his fork down and pushed the plate away. She took a deep breath and bit her lip. She knew it was her fault he was forced to put his stomach through the ringer at Al's. She'd heard from Babette the moment that she stepped off her front porch that he'd roamed around the center of town for a while, deciding on what she was sure he thought was a nice breakfast of pancakes at Al's while he waited her out.

"How'd you know I was here?"

"Word travels fast. And I saw your car," she admitted.

"I was just leaving."

"Wait," she moved to block his exit from the booth. She knew she had to act fast, do something or say something to change his mind. She'd come all this way, but so far all she'd done was meet him halfway; and after the way she'd acted the day before it just wasn't enough yet.

"Rory," he leaned up to extract his wallet. He pulled out a few bills and tossed them on the table next to the mostly untouched dishes. "I have a golf game to get to."

"You hate golf," she didn't budge.

He stood up, causing her to rock back on her heels to make a little room for him. "I have family obligations."

"Tristan," she closed her eyes and let her hands reach out for his shirt. She felt the fabric between her fingers and crumpled it as she made two fists. "Can we go somewhere and talk?"

He was looking down at her when she opened her eyes and dared to check his expression. His gaze was intense, but not closed off.

"I know a place we can go," she offered, feeling her heart beating in her throat so hard she was afraid it might bound right out of her mouth.

"Come on," he put his hands over hers, gently coaxing her to unfurl her grip on his shirt and ease her fingers between his. "I'll drive."

She shook her head. "We can walk."

She led him out of Al's Pancake World and through the streets of Stars Hollow, all eyes on the disheveled princess and the rich outsider, hearing her mother's words over and over in her head. _You just know … if you feel strongly, no matter the reason … someone who wants the same things … worth the chance. _She was going to give in to what she felt so strongly, no matter what was prompting her to do so.

All she knew for sure was that denying him meant denying herself.


	13. A Hands Free Learning Experience

Title: Slipping Under The Surface

Chapter: 13—A Hands-Free Learning Experience

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I don't own anything buy my laptop, and trust me, you don't want this laptop…

Description: Sequel to Untouched… Another Trory… It starts out M because Untouched was M…

AN: It's nice to have power back. It's easier to write when your fingers aren't frozen. This chapter is extra steamy. Deserving of that M label they slap on there….

She was an apt pupil.

He slid his body up over the smooth curves of the hood of his BMW, the heat rolling off the metal to the point he knew he might be burning his legs had he been wearing shorts. He was fresh from a half day at work, still dressed in a suit and tie. Not that a private school uniform was much less formal than his current attire, but he looked the part of an older sibling or parent waiting to pick up one of the kids roaming about the campus rather than one of their peers. It was the lunch break, the time between the two summer courses at Chilton Academy, and for perhaps the first time in his life he wished he was about to sit around eating cafeteria food and participating in the kind of idiotic revelry that was happening all around him. Guys were tossing a football out in the yard beyond the parking lot, girls were fanning themselves with the notes they'd just taken in class, and all of them were doing their best to attract the other sex's attention.

It wasn't so long ago he'd been one of them. Not that he cared one way or another really about school in and of itself. He was a good student, in so far as he got good marks with minimal effort applied. Every once in a while, there would be a particular subject or instructor that caught his attention, resulting in some pleasure taken in the whole learning process, but more than anything school—this very expensive, top of the line education his parents signed him up for in utero—was nothing more than a social breeding ground.

His father had noticed this fact, thus ending the sweet summer days of lounging around in class, staying in the walls of the school just long enough to make plans for after hours. The last bell was a calling sign for jumping in their luxury sports cars and hitting the nearest pool house, stripping down out of the khaki shorts and slipping into the latest in midriff baring couture. Life, in other words, was sweet. Even being the ringleader, he wasn't safe. Sure, his father was glad of his dominance in any social circle, but that wasn't really enough. Being the leader of the pack of guys getting caught for pranks just got him named first, apparently. Despite the last time he'd been dragged into the Headmaster's office had been before he started dating Rory, his father was taking no chances. It was time for him to face the real world, taking on a summer job instead of slacking off and acting like a kid.

He hadn't felt like a kid in a long time, but he was fairly sure the suit had nothing to do with it.

"Hey, Stranger," came a comely voice off to his right. He shielded his eyes from the sun with one hand and at once was greeted with long, smooth legs that were at last barely covered by a khaki colored, and perhaps therefore regulation, skirt. "We've missed you. What's with the suit? Did somebody die?"

He was sure they'd been out on a date. He was almost sure her name started with a K. Kate? Kim? Kelly?

"Summer job," he nodded curtly, and thankfully a much more familiar face walked up and wrapped an arm around her waist. "Hey, man."

"Dugrey, what's with the suit?" Brian Anderson, one of the many guys he'd been in school with for most of his life, held out his fist in way of greeting.

"He says he's working," the nameless girl smirked at him, as if she were glad to have a personal bit of information to offer up about him.

"My old man tried to pull that," Brian nodded. "Thankfully I flunked Spanish, and summer school called."

"Coyuntura favorable."

"What?"

"Nothing. Hey, you seen Rory?"

"Who?" the blonde narrowed her features in confusion.

"His girlfriend," Brian rolled his eyes, hugging the girl to him a little tighter.

She rolled her eyes. "Very funny," she looked at the both of them and extracted her waist from the grip of the only guy that was interested in her, in present company at any rate. "But seriously, everyone misses you. You should come hang out," she informed Tristan and gave Brian a look. "I'm gonna go find Missy."

Brian nodded and waved her off. "Gilmore's probably in the library."

Tristan smiled. "Thanks, man."

"You should, you know. We never see you anymore. I get that you don't have much say in the school thing," he shrugged. "But you can't work all the time, can you?"

"I'll give you a buzz after I get back from the coast."

Brian nodded and started to walk off. "Vacation?"

"I can't work all the time," Tristan smirked and checked his watch. "Damn," he slid off the car and walked into the air-conditioned confines of the main building. The effect was like walking from a dryer into a refrigerator, but he didn't have time to let the relief wash over him. His temperature remained elevated as he walked intently toward the main library and down the first few rows of stacks until the noise dampened out and there were only a couple of students sitting, one per table instead of entire 'study' groups crammed around and laughing. At the very last one sat a familiar brunette, with headphones in her ears and several books opened around her. And he knew her name started with an R.

He put a hand on her shoulder, knowing she would jump half out of her skin. She wheeled around and brought her hand to her chest as a gasp of surprise escaped her throat.

He smirked and lifted one ear bud out. "You've very unapproachable with these things on, you know that, right?"

"You approached me."

"And what does that tell you?"

"That you enjoy scaring the crap out of unsuspecting women?"

"Or?" he led.

"Oh, crap!" she immediately started gathering her books closed and into a central pile. "I'm so sorry!"

"You forgot about me."

"I didn't forget! I got out of class early, I turned in my test and had extra time to kill, so I came in here and kind of lost track of the time," she explained, earning a few evil glares as her babbling got louder and disturbed those around her without ear buds.

"Hey, it's okay," he assured her as he helped her gather all her things, lifting up the hefty backpack easily with a couple of fingers and threaded one suit jacket covered arm through the yellow strap. She giggled at the image.

"What are you doing?"

"Carrying your books, why?"

"Something about the suit and the backpack. You look like you're picking up Junior at Little League."

"Says the girl that gets to carry all her own books," he dumped the bag back down on the table, and she slid her arms around his shoulders, instantly remorseful.

"I checked out four extra books for the trip," she stuck out her bottom lip. "And yellow is your color. It brings out the highlights in your hair," she couldn't help but tease him.

"You wanna walk to the Vineyard?" he threatened.

She shrugged. "I can check out a couple more books and take the bus."

He snorted. "That'd be a sight." He lifted the backpack again and looked at the floor. "Where's the rest of your stuff?"

"Locker. I have to stop by there and get the paper I have due in French, anyhow."

He nodded and followed silently behind her. It'd been a week since their fight—or more specifically since making up from their fight. She'd come to him and told him she was sorry for freaking out. She'd been light on details about what had caused the freak out, but she said he didn't deserve to get the brunt of her reaction and looked up at him more than apologetically.

He'd been speechless.

Then she said she trusted him.

That had outright paralyzed him. Not for long. About ten seconds later, they were engulfed in one another, her back against a large oak tree out by a small wooden bridge over the pond out by the school in her small town, where she'd led him that morning. But since then, she'd lived up to those words. She didn't hesitate with him, she didn't question him, and she'd agreed to ask her mother for permission to go with him out to Martha's Vineyard for a long weekend away. It'd taken Janlan calling to assure Lorelai that the kids wouldn't be out there alone. But astonishingly she'd agreed, and now they were on their way.

"I need to use the bathroom, then I'm ready," she handed him the duffel bag she'd miraculously crammed into her locker earlier that morning. She must have been a sight on the morning bus that day—huge, bulky bright yellow backpack and a duffel almost large enough to stuff a body into, equally packed and bulky. It was a wonder she didn't tip over when she walked.

"Guess I'll take your stuff to the car," he said sarcastically, which earned him a kiss on the cheek.

"Thanks," she said appreciatively.

_Great_. He heaved up the duffel and the backpack. "Anything else? Got a make-up case? Kitchen sink?"

"Be glad I didn't pack the umbrella and the rain hat," she stuck a finger in his face.

"What?"

"I'll meet you at the car," she shook her head in dismissal, and he watched as she walked away. She was particularly mean about the way she swung her hips, strutting away from him. Making him much more likely to do as she suggested.

He shook his head, mumbling to himself as he dragged all her bags out to his waiting car. He popped the trunk and tossed her stuff alongside his modestly packed bag. Granted, he had things waiting for him at the house they would be staying at, but he didn't see how she could possibly need every last thing she had chosen to bring along. They'd only be gone four days, and he'd told her there were no surprises in store. The plans were beaches and relaxation. She needed only a bathing suit and a pair of sunglasses. And apparently four very heavy books.

A few more people greeted him as he waited for her, but he was anxious to get on the road. He was starting to feel the eyes of too many girls on him. For every pair of eyes he met, a knowing smile was waiting for him. He'd only been out of school for a few weeks, out of this environment and in one where his past didn't haunt him. Only his future did.

Rory came out of the same door he had, minutes past when he'd expected her. He was fidgety now, and in effort to expel what seemed to be nervous energy he walked around and opened her car door for her. He didn't notice at first that she didn't make direct eye contact with him as she slid into his passenger seat quickly.

He got in and started the ignition, waiting for her to ask for her book bag or mention the horrified look on Paris's face when she bested her on the Chem test they no doubt got back in class this morning. He was to the end of the parking lot and turning out onto the main road before he noticed that Rory was looking out the window, at all the girls that had been looking at him and were still following his car with their longing gazes as he pulled slowly away.

"You hungry or anything?"

She shook her head wordlessly.

"You can use my cell, if you need to let your mom know we're on our way," he offered.

She shook her head again, but looked at him quickly with a thankful smile.

He tapped his fingers on the wheel. He wanted an instant replay. Hadn't she been responsive and playful not five minutes ago? He reached over across her lap and unlatched the glove compartment. She flushed at the feel of his arm against her leg, but didn't pull away. He grabbed the CD case and closed the box.

"You hot?"

She swallowed. "I'm fine. I could have gotten that for you."

He shrugged. "I know what I'm looking for."

"Okay," she eyed him carefully as he kept one hand on the steering wheel and flipped through the sleeves as the holder rested in his lap. He let his focus slip to her carefully, and he noticed her eyes were on his lap, but he couldn't tell if she was looking at the CDs or just… he shook his head and kept looking for the CD he wanted.

He slid the thin, silver circle out of the plastic sleeve and pressed the edge to the opening of the CD player. The machine sucked in the disc and within seconds the soft music filled the car. He could tell by the look on her face that his selection wasn't one she expected. She kept her specific thoughts to herself, but her hand crept across the center divider of the car and her nails tapped against the fabric of his suit pants. She smoothed her fingers out around the muscle that curved over his thigh and then squeezed.

"I think you're really gonna love the house," he loosened his tie with one hand, keeping the other on the wheel. He felt the gentle scraping of her fingers again over his leg. If she kept this up, he was going to have to pull over before they got to Massachusetts. She began to move in slow circles, and maybe it was his imagination, but it felt like with each circle she inched closer to his lap.

"It's right on the beach, and it's just a short walk into town. It's actually a pretty small town. It's not really as colorful as Stars Hollow, but," he leaned his foot harder on the gas as he'd liberated his tie and realized he wasn't just fantasizing that her hand was moving up his leg. Her actions were purposeful, and he was fairly sure she had no idea what he was talking about.

"Rory?"

"Hmm?"

He put his hand over hers and squeezed. "Do you want a tour of the town when we get in, or would you rather just hit the beach?"

"I don't know," she looked up at him with a glint in her eye. "I wasn't really thinking of what would happen once we got there."

"What were you thinking of?" he prompted, wondering if it could be that easy. She'd been not exactly secretive, but quite silent, in certain moments lately, he'd noticed. It was more than knowing girls never stop worrying and thinking and wondering—it was the way she would catch her lip between her teeth, as if restricting the words from being spoken out loud. Perhaps if the thoughts that plagued her not caused the fight they had, then he'd not be so intent on finding out what was happening in those moments of silence.

"Have you ever," she caught her breath on the last word and her gaze flickered to where her hand continued on, out from under the weight of his hand, up over his hip and heading dangerously close to making him swerve onto the shoulder.

"Ever what?"

He didn't dare put his hand back over hers, a little afraid to spook her. He got a feeling, somewhere deep in his gut, that tried to prepare him for what she was really thinking about right this moment, but he didn't want to get his hopes up.

His hopes weren't the only thing rising at the moment.

"Has anyone ever," she took a breath and resolved somewhere inside herself to continue, "gone down on you, in a car?"

"In a car, you mean," he questioned.

"A moving car?"

He felt the rumble strip under the passenger side vibrate angrily, and he corrected the wheel. Her hand had stopped, but it was still on his hip.

"Uh, no," he answered honestly.

"Really?"

This answer seemed to be the right one, as her hand moved again, this time skimming the now swollen area. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and tried to quell the growl that rumbled in his throat.

"Really."

He swallowed as he saw her unbuckle her seat belt out of the corner of his eye. "Rory," he said, warning lacing his voice.

"It's a nice, straight, paved road, right?" she asked, more than a glint of mischief in her eyes.

What brought this into her head wasn't clear to him. What was clear was that it was increasingly apparent that this was really going to happen. And what guy in his right mind didn't want this to happen?

"Have you ever," he asked, despite his body's protests for his mouth to remain quiet enough to let this happen.

"No," she looked down at where her hands met his body, as she lifted his shirt slightly with her left hand so she could see to unbutton his pants with her right. "But I'm a quick study."

He felt her hand slide into his boxers and circle around the object of her attention. Though she'd never attempted a blow job, which he'd known full well when he asked, she'd used her hands enough times to bring him in the realm of being dangerously close to ruining her own pleasure. Not that he wasn't happy to oblige her in other ways, but that was never the point when all he wanted was to be buried as far inside her as possible.

He was now beginning to wonder if he would be able to resist such urges and remain between the white lines on the road for the duration.

She stroked him several times, not too hard or fast, just in a familiarization of sorts. She looked up at his face just as he closed his eyes momentarily. He couldn't help it, as her fingers slid along his skin his eyes involuntarily fluttered.

"Tristan," she asked, suddenly timid. Of course she didn't want to die, or worse, end up in a hospital trying to tell Lorelai and Janlan what had caused the accident. Like either of them would survive that conversation.

"I'm good," he shifted in his seat and set the cruise control. Better safe than sorry. She sank down further, almost looking like she was about to curl up in his lap to sleep. Her left hand bunched his dress shirt and held it up against his stomach. She kept hold of him with her right hand as she lowered her lips down, not really even making contact with him as she took him in her mouth slowly. He could feel the heat of her mouth, as if she were engulfing him in flames. That he could handle. It wasn't until she clamped down and brushed her tongue up the underneath side that he quit breathing.

Her right hand, now unnecessary, slid down his thigh, and she used it to brace herself in the odd position she was in. Her torso was nearly flat over seat divider, yet her feet were still on the passenger side floorboard. Her actions gave no sign of her being uncomfortable as she came up off of him, circled his head with her tongue and slid back down the length again, taking more of him in this time.

"Jesus," he hissed. He took one hand off the steering wheel to hold the back of her head in place, not so much to coach her but to feel her as she moved on him. To make sure this wasn't just a very vivid daydream.

Nothing he could imagine was ever as good as the feel of her tongue against his hot skin. If he thought her hand brought him too close too fast, her mouth had set him on a crash course. He tried to focus on the dotted white lane markers as they flew past like little dots, but his body started to tighten as her actions grew more practiced and assured. He dared to look down at her, her head as it bobbed against his opened Armani suit, as he reached his breaking point.

His left hand gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white while his torso tightened and the build up of excitement exploded. She was caught off-guard, slowing instantly as he climaxed, but he stroked her hair.

"Keep going," he grunted.

She did as he asked, swallowing awkwardly before speeding back up and helping him ride out the last few spasms of pleasure. Somehow they were still headed the right direction down the road he intended, and she was sitting up and using the edge of her shirt to wipe her mouth. He slid back into his boxers and zipped up his suit pants, before rubbing his hand up from her knee under her skirt until he could feel her panty line.

"That was," he bit his lip, his eyes blazing into her skin, wanting to pull over and do the same to her—though he knew there was no way they would survive such a tryst if the tables were turned.

"Was it okay?"

That was what he loved about her. She could knock him off his axis by doing something so blatantly seductive, then bat her eyes and look up at him meekly to see if she'd pulled it off. He snaked his right hand around her neck and pulled her over again, this time to his lips, and kissed her hard.

"That was fucking amazing."

"You've really never done that before?" she asked, what seemed to be the golden question.

"Does it matter?" he stroked her neck as she pulled back to her own seat again, her own skin flushed from her exertion. "Rory?"

She looked past him for a moment, as if remembering something before she answered. "Everything we do, it's all new to me," she started, and it didn't take much for him to fill in the missing words in his head.

"So?"

"I just wanted to surprise you."

"Next time you surprise me, make sure I'm not operating heavy machinery," he laughed softly, and pulled her forward again to kiss her cheek.

"Does that mean you couldn't handle it?"

"I didn't crash us into anything, did I?"

She smiled, looking more than pleased with herself. "Besides, we won't have much chance to do much with your family being at the house while we're there," she sounded disappointed, which made the next newsflash particularly sweet to deliver.

"Actually, we can relieve this little encounter as much as you wish," he winked at her.

"What do you mean?"

"It's just us, all weekend."

"But," she stammered.

"Is there a problem with that?"

"No, it's just, your grandfather told my mother that," she began, and he assumed she thought better of protesting as she realized she was stopping short of complaining about something most teenagers would kill to have.

"Gramps is pretty cool, for an old guy. He did it for us; he figured Lorelai wouldn't let you come if it was just us."

"Exactly," she shook her head. "I'm lying to my mother."

"No, he lied to your mother, technically," he pointed out. "You didn't lie at all."

"I don't lie to her, Tristan," she reminded him.

He sighed. "I get that you're ever mother's perfect dream," he said, probably a little too scathingly in light of the very inappropriate and wonderful treat she'd just given him. "But don't you want to get away with me?"

"It's not like we don't see each other every day," she pointed out.

"Yes, and as much as I enjoy having your mother monitor my every hand placement, I wanted to get to hang out, just the two of us."

She was silent for a moment and looked out the passenger side window. "Do you miss it?"

He was got lost between the two points of conversation. "Do I miss what?"

Worry creased her forehead. "The freedom, doing whatever you want, with whomever you want, whenever you want," she went on.

He should have known better than to let her have these kinds of doubts. Hadn't he done everything in his power to show her he was doing whatever it took to be with her? He didn't miss the parties, and he didn't feel caged in, no matter how many weird theme nights he spent at her mother's house eating local take out. He knew his friends were calling him pussy-whipped behind his back, but none of them had the balls to say it to his face.

"I am doing whatever I want, whenever I want, and whomever I want," he put his hand on her leg and squeezed. "Aren't you?"

She blushed and caught his gaze. "Are you sure?"

"What exactly do you think it is I'm missing?"

She shook her head. "Is this enough, I mean, am I enough for you?"

He looked her in the eye, steadfast and earnest. "Sometimes I think you're too much for me."

She let out a heavy breath, and took another in. "I know the feeling."

"I just wanted a weekend alone with you. When Gramps offered it to me, I damn sure wasn't going to turn it down."

"I'm sorry we don't get much time alone," she admitted. "You just have to understand," she began.

"I get it, Rory," he sighed.

"No, you don't," she cut in. "It's not because I don't want to. If I had it my way," she swallowed.

"If you had it your way," he led again.

"Things wouldn't be so hard."

He nodded. "Well, this weekend, it's just you and me. We don't have to pretend anything for anyone."

She smiled. "I like the sound of that."

"I think you should start thinking about what we're going to do when we get there," he instructed.

She flipped her hair off to one side and grinned. "What were my choices again? Town tour or beach, right?"

"Actually, I have something very different in mind," he took off his cruise control and pressed his foot down harder on the gas pedal. "And I think you'd enjoy the anticipation."

"What's that?"

"When we get to the house, I'm gonna return the favor," he ran his hand back up her leg and brushed the cotton that covered the proof that she got nearly as much out of the treat she'd given him as he had. She squirmed against his touch, probably only adding fire to the flames, and closed her eyes.

"I can't wait."

He couldn't drive fast enough, just like he couldn't want her more than he did at this very moment. Every second that passed that he couldn't touch her like he wanted to was an eternity, and he only wanted proof that she felt the same way. Never did he expect her to change, or try to live up to what she imagined his past to be full of. He liked to think what happened in the car had nothing to do with expectations and everything to do with the way he made her feel.

The only thing he was sure of was that he wasn't teaching her nearly as much as he was learning.


	14. Lying to Bend the Truth

Title: Slipping Under The Surface

Chapter: 14—Lying to Bend the Truth

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I don't own anything buy my laptop, and trust me, you don't want this laptop…

He was a really good liar.

It wasn't so much that she wanted to be honest all the time. But from the very seedling of thought that crept into her mind to tell a lie, even a teeny little white one, something under her skin began to twitch. It worked its way from her brain to her eyes, which desperately attempted to blink the twitch out of her system.

She was blocked from wrong-doing before the pathetic story she might come up with could be fully formulated in her mind. Her only chance was to go about it by omission—slipping little things past those looking closely enough to notice the silences. She treaded lightly when she knew questions would be asked, knowing that thinking on the fly gave her no options but the truth.

Some people would never press her for much more than she wanted to give. Her boyfriend, for one, was probably left in a state of wonder as to what provoked their little sexual escapade in the car on the way to the beach. Yet his questions were all but silenced the second her mouth made contact with the one part of his anatomy that could control the rest of his body, at least in the heat of the moment. As she saw it, everybody won and no one had to know that she'd been humiliated in the bathroom, having to overhear not a small amount of his past indiscretions; many of which were enough to make her stomach turn when she imagined his mouth on the boasting girls. They were awful girls, these people that leered at their own reflections in the mirror as they altered their uniforms in hopes he'd stop by to relive one of these disgusting interludes.

She told herself, as she'd sat with her feet up off the floor in the stall, that these girls meant nothing to him. That they were just moments of boredom, filling in as a sex-crazed teenaged boy's efforts to pass time. Tristan had never been the average teen-aged boy, and therefore his efforts came off as skilled, purposeful; lustful in a promising way. He made women feel desirable, he made them feel alive.

But he loved her. Rory had fought the nagging thoughts in her head as she listened to the giggles and purrs of the girls that had experienced the feel of his hands against their hot skin as he lied to them, telling them the words he felt necessary to have his way. He was so skilled; they surely believed him, just as she had. She hoped she was the only one he'd looked dead in the eyes while he said it.

She was sure she was the only one he'd professed his love for while fully clothed. He loved her no matter the circumstances. And she vowed that she could keep him as interested, if not more, than any of these trashy girls ever had.

So, perhaps giving him a blow job in a moving car hadn't been something she would normally do. As a matter of fact, it ranked right up there with never in her life would she ever imagined doing that. When the thought popped into her head, as she climbed down off the toilet, racking her brain for ways to one-up any and every girl he'd had in the past, she imagined she'd feel dirty. She imagined she'd feel like a tramp, losing respect for herself by the second. As it turned out, it was actually kind of fun. Knowing she could have backed out at any moment, changed her mind, she was spurred on by his reactions, and her body's reactions as well. She felt powerful, as she held his interest and his body captive, and she felt sexy.

Just thinking about it, holding him in her mouth, hearing the guttural sounds she was coaxing from his throat, feeling his hand weigh her head down, in hopes she would keep going—she felt dampness between her legs and she hadn't yet ventured out into the ocean. She glanced out of the corner of her sunglasses, seeing his exposed thigh catching sun as he reclined next to her. His hand dusted off seemingly invisible sand before pointing out a figure down the beach.

"David Hasselhof."

"Shut up," she lowered her glasses to look and giggled. "He's even attempting the slow run."

"Beat that," he challenged.

She tried to clear the dirty thoughts from her mind and focused on the people that littered the coastline. She resituated on the blanket, sitting up a bit straighter in efforts to see more possibilities. After a moment of silent gazing and desperate attempts to tune out his hand that had lazily landed on her thigh as he reached for the sun block in her beach bag, she clapped her hands a couple of times in glee.

"You didn't beat David Hasselhof. Seriously. They could be twins."

"Gidget!" she pointed the opposite direction down the beach from the would-be TV lifeguard.

"Who?"

"Gidget," she pointed again, waiting for his eyes to land on the girl she had singled out. "Her, with the pigtails? Right next to the guy in the bright purple Speedo," she cringed. "I hope for her sake, they're not together. She can totally do better."

"I see the girl, but who is Gidget?"

Her mouth hung open as she turned to face him. "Have you been living under a rock your entire life? How can you not know who Gidget is?"

He shrugged. "Guess I win by default, since I can't just take your word for things. There has to be a consensus."

She sat up on her knees and put her glasses up on her head. "Excuse me? No way am I losing this game because you're some kind of unfortunate pop culture proletarian."

His eyes narrowed. "I don't think you have much of a choice in the matter. It's you against me."

"So, we get a third person to back me up."

"You mean, to help me win," he smiled out of the right corner of his mouth. "Just who are we getting to decide?"

She looked around and shrugged. "Anyone."

"Anyone?"

"You pick," she looked out.

"How about him?" They both looked up to see the guy that leaped up to catch a Frisbee in one hand. Tristan shrugged. "Seems like a man's man."

Rory snorted. "He may be a guy, but I can almost guarantee he knows Gidget. Bet he had a poster of her in his room, right between Cher and Liza."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he rubbed his hands together and smoothed more lotion into his chest.

"He's so clearly gay. I mean, look at him. He's gorgeous."

Tristan cleared his throat, and she rolled her eyes. "I mean, he's too gorgeous. He looks like Antonio Sabato, Jr."

"Okay, now you're just making up names."

She sighed dryly. "You know that guy in that Janet Jackson video, where she's roaming around the beach in a tank top?"

His eyes brightened in recognition. Of course. She grabbed the sun block from him and opened the cap.

"So, he's gay?"

"No… I don't know. But that guy? Definitely is. I could walk up to him naked and he wouldn't bat an eye."

He took the bottle from her and upended it into his hand. He rubbed his hands together slowly and gently moved her hair out of the way as he reapplied the white lotion into her skin. He leaned into her ear as he worked it in.

"Trust me, you could walk up to any guy on this beach and turn them to jelly."

She wondered if he found her sexier since she had initiated such a strong display of domination. Never before had any of her fantasies included her taking the lead—having a healthy amount of participation for sure, but what got her excited was the idea of him overwhelming her, encouraging her to let all her inhibitions free.

The thought that he fantasized about her being the one in control wasn't that much of a stretch, yet suddenly the possibilities that were opened up to her were dizzying. She smiled.

"Jelly, huh?"

"Unless you're willing to let me win," he baited her.

Rory jumped up, now with a fresh layer of protection slathered on her skin, and watched him wipe the excess from her lathering off on his legs. "Fine. I'll go flirt with Antonio," she turned in the sand, kicking up just enough to spray his legs, and went off in search of her proof.

He couldn't say she was shy, not now. And she certainly wasn't about to lose a sucker bet. If anyone was going to be doing the dirty work this weekend, it was going to be him. And she could go to any guy and talk to them—she had a sudden burst of self esteem. Heck, maybe she could even turn Gay Antonio over to the other side.

"Excuse me," she tucked a bit of hair behind her ear, a trick she'd witnessed her mother use countless times. The hunk that glistened almost as if he'd been oiled down and lit perfectly for a photo shoot missed his Frisbee and smiled at her.

"Yes?"

"Hi," she tried to contain her giggles as she shielded her eyes to look into his. "This might sound a bit odd," she hedged, "but I was wondering if you could settle a bet for me."

"A bet?"

"Yeah. Do you know who Gidget is?"

He laughed. "Sure."

"Great," she had an excessive need to do something with her hands. She crossed her arms, then deciding it best not to cover her bare stomach while chatting with the beautiful stranger, she swung her arms out and pointed down the beach to her sure thing. "See that girl down there?"

He nodded. "Dead ringer."

"Oh, good," she leaned out and took hold of his elbow, dragging her back to her blanket for verification.

It was only as she stood in front of her boyfriend next to the man her mother would get down on all fours and pray to that she felt nervous. She let go of his elbow and met Tristan's gaze, which included a raised eyebrow and a very straight mouth.

"So, it seems we have ourselves a tie-breaker," she beamed at Antonio, who was definitely giving off a flirty vibe. Just not in her direction. He was smiling at Tristan, and not in a 'isn't your girlfriend funny' kind of way. She got the feeling he might ask for his number. She wondered if he'd throw in extra time on the bet for her being right on both counts. Probably not.

"Is that so?" Tristan asked.

"Tell him," Rory urged.

"That girl is the spitting image of Gidget."

"How do I know you didn't bribe him?" Tristan looked at her, clearly having watched her every move, and it took all she had not to laugh at his misguided jealousy.

"You can take my word that I'd much rather side with you," the lascivious smile filled the stranger's face. Rory could be nice and save her boyfriend, but she thought letting him wriggle in discomfort for a few moments couldn't hurt, could it?

"Uh, okay," Tristan frowned and looked at Rory expectantly.

Rory ducked to hide her smile and let him realize the fact that he wasn't just attractive to the female population.

"So, has everyone been assigned an alternate identity on this beach?"

He was still directing his conversation at Tristan, but Rory piped in. "Not everyone. Just a select few."

"Well, I hope I didn't cost you too much," he winked at Tristan. Rory decided he'd probably had enough and half jumped into his lap and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, sliding on the greased-up skin. In another half hour, the sun would help bake it into his body, making him taste like coconut and salt. She leaned her head against his and kissed his temple, right above his ear.

"He's just going to have to be my errand boy for the next couple of days. Nothing he can't handle."

"We'll see about that," he slid an arm through her legs, at the ready to stand up and carry her off at any moment. Her heart rate increased as he easily stood up with her weight in his arms. Luckily, they were both too slick and she was easily able to slide down his body and out of his grasp. She took off at a full tilt, the fastest her legs could carry her, knowing it was only a matter of time before his practiced strides caught up to her. Before she got too far away, she decided it was only right to reward the kind stranger, even if he had the hots for her man.

"Oh, Antonio Sabato, Jr," she pointed at him as she took off down toward the surf, Tristan hot on her heels.

She was splashing up to her ankles by the time strong hands circled her waist, pulling her back and picking her up out of the waves. Her head fell back against his shoulder, and he spun her around in the air.

"Let me down!" she pleaded.

"Now, what kind of guarantee do I have that you won't try to set me up with a man again?"

She laughed out loud, and he easily scooped up her legs so she could face him.

"To be fair, I did pick the second sexiest man on the whole beach," her eyes danced as she teased him.

"Second sexiest?"

"I prefer blondes," she leaned up and kissed him, apparently affecting his balance, as she soon found herself in waist high water, then higher, and her legs naturally going to wrap around his waist for support.

The summer sun beat down on them, and the water lapped up on her shoulders, making her feel like she'd turned to liquid against him. She could feel his arousal pressing into her, under the water, and she wondered what it would be like to let him touch her.

"Rory," he murmured into her ear after a kiss that was near indecency.

"Yeah?" she leaned in for another kiss, which he granted. Her hands slid down his chest under the cover of water, and shivered when he did the same.

"I believe I have a debt to settle."

"You mean the bet?"

"I mean the car," he grazed her neck. "And if you're not careful, I'm going to repay you here."

She held onto his shoulders as the seriousness of his voice gripped her. "Oh?"

"I think we should get up to the house."

"R-right," she looked up at him, realizing she was the one that was about to turn to jelly.

XXXX

Jelly, as it turned out, was too solid a consistency for the state she found herself in at the house. She could have sworn he had the ability to change her molecular structure, with just the laving of his tongue. Her limbs felt as fluid as the motion of his mouth. Her stomach tensed in pleasure, and she was forced up by her body to an almost crunched position, looking at him for the first time as his mouth sealed itself around her core.

Her body shook, trembling so hard that she was afraid he might stop to check on her. She called out for him to keep going, keep going, not to ever stop. She saw it in his eyes that he had no intention of stopping until the feeling of his tongue ceased to be the overriding factor and merely the eye of the storm that was stirring.

She was close, but she felt like her body was holding out on her. Technically he was doing everything she asked, everything right to get her where she knew they were headed. Her mind drifted to his instruction in the car, telling her how to expedite his body into release. She'd believed he had the knowledge, all the knowledge, to bring her to heights she'd only dreamed of until him. He'd proved his ability, and now she felt he was coaxing her to prove her knowledge of her own body.

After all, now she was a brazen, self-assured woman. All she had to do was open her mouth and ask. She watched him, the lust in his eyes as he pleasured her, and suddenly, she knew.

"I want to touch you," she managed.

He kissed her lightly where her skin was red and swollen with attention. He brushed the inside of her thighs with his lips, making her shiver. He hadn't expected that request, but if he was truly surprised, he didn't express it. "Okay."

He climbed over her like a panther, a slow crawl up her body, dipping his head down to pay his respects along the way. She didn't say anything, couldn't say a words as his mouth connected with first one breast, then the other. His tongue circled, his teeth pinched, and her eyes closed in appreciation. He placed a kiss on her breastbone and then in the hollow of her neck, making her eyes water when she opened them. She felt his body asking for entrance where his mouth had just been, and she put a finger to his lips.

"No, stop."

Now she saw surprise in his eyes. Not fear, but something related to trepidation. Surely he'd heard the request before, but not from her; not like this. He was too far gone to stop, it was biologically impossible, and she was more than aware of that fact. She smiled at him, trying to reassure him, but the look of confusion never left his face.

"Did I hurt you?"

How he could imagine his lips against any part of her body could hurt was beyond comprehension.

"No, you didn't," she breathed. "I just want to try something else."

He didn't say anything for a moment, but his eyes bore into hers so hard that had she not been so sure of herself in that moment and what she wanted, she might have changed her mind. She let him take his time with what she'd just said, and after a while, a slow, delicious smile spread over his face.

"You're the boss."

She pushed on his shoulder, and he let her position his body, flipping over with just some coaxing from her hands on his hips so he was lying on his back. She turned so she was climbing down his body, her hands skimming his hard, sculpted abdominal muscles as she followed the trail of hair that ended at her object of desire. When she finally smoothed her hand over his thigh, coming back up underneath, she paused to work out the logistics of her plan.

"Rory?"

She looked back up at him, tossing her hair over her shoulder to do so. As she looked at him through the tunnel of her body, it suddenly made sense.

She scooted back just enough and eased her leg over to the other side of his body, straddling his chest between her knees. She could feel his palms running smooth circles over her hips, her thighs, then one ran up between her legs, letting his fingers slip into her, making her entire body tingle.

"Come here," he used both hands to lower her hips down to his mouth, leaning just his shoulders up to taste her.

She watched him for a moment as he began his end of the bargain, the unspoken agreement they now had to drive each other to near insufferable heights of pleasure. With her not even touching him, he grew more and more excited, inviting her to join along in the play. And she was quickly getting left behind, as he slipped two fingers up inside her to hasten the process.

She slid her mouth down on him, trying to feel the rhythm of his mouth so she could meet it. It wasn't like sex, where she could just let her body react to his at first, meeting him as he thrust against her. She had to keep her body in her control while he drove her insane, and drive him to the brink at the same time. She was starting to worry that this was a mastery level she wasn't ready for until she felt him nearly growl in pleasure—against her. He wasn't even against her, as much as his mouth was half inside her, or her half inside him, she couldn't even tell the difference from where her body seemed to be melting into his. All she knew was his unintelligible words reverberated all through her pelvis, and she closed her mouth as much as she could around him and let what he was doing spur her on.

She soon found out this position was completely worth the work involved. She could feel her body involuntarily shaking, and she gave up all tricks of drawing out his pleasure; working her tongue over him, teasing him—she kicked it into high gear, taking as much as she could of him over and over, her upper lip repeatedly rubbing hard over the most sensitive spot on the underneath side until….

The last vocalization he made against the most delicate of skin was too much for her… that and what his tongue was doing to her clit. No girl could withstand that kind of treatment without coming a time or two. He'd conditioned her muscles into a series of pent-up coils, and now he was unleashing each one into the stratosphere. She'd thought it was some sort of cheesy metaphor to see stars, but she was starting to think he really was the guy that had inspired all the myths about sex she'd ever heard. Or at least anxious to test each theory.

By the time her vision was recovering, not to mention her overspent muscles were realizing they hadn't the strength to hover over him, his hands were back on her hips, easing her down next to his shoulder. He turned her on her side and bent his head down to kiss her hip bone.

"Damn," he gazed on her with a mixture of awe and appreciation. "Let me guess, you read about that in a book somewhere."

If she had motor control, she would have hit him, or at least put a hand to her hip. Damn him and his leaving her boneless.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I just… can't picture you watching porn."

She made a face. "But you can imagine me reading porn?"

He nodded. "Now especially."

She wanted to move, but all she could do was look up at him. She didn't want to talk about why she wanted engage in new sexual acts. She wanted him to accept it as a facet of her newly unearthed sexual appetite and leave it at that.

"We should open a window," she mused. The room had become overpoweringly musky; a mixture of scents that weren't altogether unfamiliar, but at the same time foreign in their strength.

"It just smells like us," he said, unhooking her leg from his torso and moving up next to her. Her mouth opened a little in shock that he was capable of breathing, let alone full body movement.

"Hey, now, I need recovery time," she whimpered as his mouth latched onto her neck.

He laughed softly. "That's what happens when you come three times," he murmured. "You spend all your energy in one go. But that doesn't mean you don't owe me one."

"One?" she asked, wondering if she'd blacked out for that third one he seemed so sure of. Or perhaps if he thought one orgasm lasting longer than five minutes counted as two….

"The score is three to two," he kissed her cheek.

"You keep track?"

"When my girlfriend is sucking me off in a car and into sixty-nines, hell, yeah, I keep track. What's next on the agenda?" his eyes twinkled.

"Ugh," she used all her force to push at his shoulder so she could struggle to sit up.

"Rory," he traced his fingers down the back of her arm, making her feel suddenly more tired. She just wanted to sit up, if only he'd quit touching her.

"What?"

"What's gotten into you today?"

His tone wasn't joking, and neither, she'd bet, was his expression, but she didn't want to find out. She stared at a black-and-white photo on the opposite wall, wondering who the happy beach-goers were.

"Can't a girl try something new?"

"What we were doing wasn't enough?"

She bit her lip. It had been more than enough, she thought, before today. She felt her back tighten, but she wasn't relieved to have control over her muscles. She leaned up and hugged her knees.

"Rory?"

"Was it?"

"I'm not doing this," he announced, succeeding in getting her to turn around and look at him. He hadn't moved off the bed, but he was sitting up. His stomach muscles ripped as they curved in and attempted to stack on top of each other, and he made no means to cover himself.

"Not doing what?"

"Playing games. I'm not doing that shit with you," he shook his head. "If there's something you want to tell me, or something you want to do, fine, but I'm not going to second guess what the hell it is you're thinking."

She swallowed. That hadn't been her intent. She was sure this was her first serious relationship. Sure, she'd dated Dean, but never had sexual experimentation been a concern of hers at anytime in their relationship. She worried about things like whether they'd see a movie or eat pizza on a Saturday night. She never contemplated anything that had filled her life since Tristan walked into it.

"It's stupid. I feel stupid."

"You're not stupid," he assured her. "You're sexy as hell, you're incredibly smart, but stupid," he shook his head. "Tell me."

There was so much. She could tell him that she was afraid he'd get bored with her, that she'd cease to be a novel toy, that teaching the virgin new tricks would fail to compare with keeping his acrobatic muscles in tone with much more practiced women, that she couldn't keep going on these weekends while lying to her mother….

"I'm a really bad liar."

He frowned. "I'm not following."

She sighed and sat up, tucking her legs underneath her. "I can't do it. I try, and it's so painfully obvious that I can't that it's better if I don't even try."

"Who are you lying to?"

"My mother," she looked up at him, guilt washing over her.

His eyebrows lowered. "You didn't lie to her. Gramps mislead her, that's all."

"I know I haven't lied to her, yet, but when I get home, I'm going to have to, or she'll find out that we were alone out here together."

He shook his head. "Just don't bring it up."

She nearly snorted. "The biggest news all summer is that Kirk gave Babette a parking ticket for leaving her cat carrier in a handicapped spot while she was shopping in Doose's Market. I can't not talk about my vacation."

He winced. "So, give her highlights, but be light on details."

She blushed. "Highlights?"

He smiled. "Okay, maybe not highlights. Stick with mundane details. Tell her the drive was uneventful, we arrived safely, we sat on the beach, we retired early for in-house entertainment, we slept late."

"Tristan," she rolled her eyes.

"What? I fully intend to sleep late."

"I'm toast," she flopped down on the mattress.

"Why?" he climbed up over her. "Rory, come on, look at me."

Her eyes popped open. "I can't lie. I can't even corroborate! I have a full system denial on hiding anything if directly asked."

"Would it be so bad if she found out?" he played it diplomatic.

She looked up at the ceiling and thought. "Hey, Mom, Just wanted you to know that I went off for a weekend unsupervised with my boyfriend, you know the one I'm having sex with?"

He frowned. "Right."

"How do you do it?"

She locked eyes with him, trying to give him her most innocent, luring look.

"Do what?"

"Lie."

"It's easier if no one's really listening," he eased off her and stood up, arching his back in a stretch. He snagged his boxer shorts off the chair they'd been placed on before he got into his swim trunks and pulled them up to their rightful place. She frowned and pulled a sheet over her body.

"I'm serious. You're good at it. You can tell anyone anything and they believe you."

"That's not completely true," he assured her.

"You know it is."

"Rory," he shook his head. "Come on. We'll figure this out."

"Just teach me."

"Teach you to lie?" he asked, as if it were the most preposterous thing he'd ever heard.

"Why not?"

"First of all, I like that you can't lie," he sighed and sat down in the chair across from the bed.

Now it was her turn to sigh.

"I'm serious. There's something refreshing about you; you don't lie, you take things seriously, you haven't been through a lot of the crap that most of the kids at our school have gone through."

"You mean I'm inexperienced."

He smiled. "It's more than that."

"Did you ever think that I don't like that? That I don't like being different?"

He shrugged. "It's just who you are."

"I've been through things in my life! Do you honestly think my life has been this easy, picture-book, magical fantasy? Just because I live in a small town and like books?"

"I think you're happy. There's nothing wrong with being happy."

"Well, I'm not very happy right now."

He nodded. "Ever heard that story about the woman who lived with an abusive man, who taught her how to shoot a gun?"

She frowned. "No."

"She shot him."

"So? You think I'm going to lie to you?"

He shrugged. "You already won't tell me what caused the sudden interest in a bit more adventurous sex."

A bit more adventurous? Now she really wanted to hit him.

"I'm not lying to you."

"No, you're using omission, which is your strength. Mine is charm. I can make people believe whatever I want them to, because charm makes them think I'm giving them something they want."

"You do this to me?"

"Shit," he stood up and pulled a shirt over his head.

"What?"

He shot her a look and continued to get dressed. "I'm going for a walk."

"It's getting dark out."

"Yeah, well, I need fresh air."

She watched, growing more irate by the moment, as he pulled his pants up and didn't bother with shoes as he let himself out the back entrance off the room they were in. Cursing under her breath, she pulled her damp suit back on, the only clothes she could find, and one of his long-sleeved button-down shirts, which fell almost to her knees. She opened the door and wandered out to find him in the night.

XXXX

His strides were much longer than hers, so it took her a good couple of minutes to find him down the beach in the dark. She knew calling out to him would accomplish nothing, save for a strain on her voice as she attempted to be louder than the crashing waves and wind. Her only saving grace was that he wasn't running, only walking fast thanks to his pissed off state of mind. If their positions were reversed, she'd collapse from exhaustion in a few more yards. All she could do was pray he might slow down before her own legs gave out.

Moving deftly through the sand was making her already aching muscles burn so much that she wanted to take a bypass through the water to extinguish the hurt. As if he read her mind, he moved down to where the water was rolling up to meet the sand. His shoulders dropped as he stared out to the dark horizon.

She bent over to press her hands into her knees, trying to catch her breath. Her heart beat hard in her chest, and she wasn't sure if it was because of the undue exercise or the fact she didn't know what to say to him now that he'd allowed himself to be caught.

"Thank God you stopped, because I think I was about to go into cardiac arrest," she finally caught her breath and looked at his back. The wind whipped around her legs, making his shirt do a little dance, flipping up and showing off her bikini bottoms.

He didn't respond to her attempt to bring levity to the situation. She supposed jumping into an apology made sense—it was the fastest route back to the comfort and cover of the house. She wasn't sure that she had reason to apologize, save for his silent treatment.

"I didn't mean that I thought you lied to me, I mean, maybe I really am naïve, to even think that I'm the one person that you suddenly want to change your ways for or whatever, but come on, Tristan, it's not like you've ever given me any reason to doubt that what you say to me, I mean, you've never seemed particularly shy about telling me fairly shameful things, so, if you can tell a girl that you've slept with a majority of your classmates, then what would you be lying to me about, right?"

He stared at her, his mouth slightly parted. She wasn't sure if he was disgusted or just trying to catch up to all the words she'd shoved into the last few seconds.

"I mean, I'm not going to ask you if you were, because I guess at this point, it doesn't matter, except, if we don't have honesty then we don't really have anything. It's kind of an honor system, which is how I live my life, and I believe the best in people, so I wouldn't feel so strongly about you if I thought you were lying to me. So, if you're lying to me, then I've fallen for it and probably to deserve to get crushed."

He arched an eyebrow, and she took a step closer.

"I'm officially rambling. Please say something."

He stared at her, making her feel more transparent than normal in little more than underwear and his shirt in the moonlight. His silence said he wasn't going to make this easy on her; he never made anything easy on her. She'd screwed up and no amount of babbling was going to coax him into acquiescence, no amount of coyness that could make him take pity on her and her innocence. He saw her as she was, and she wasn't helpless or without fault. Nor was she without wiles.

"You want me to say I believe you?"

He shrugged. "I don't want you to say anything you don't mean."

His words cut into her, made her ache to spin the clock back. Her eyes closed to near slits, but she maintained eye contact.

"You aren't the most honest person."

"I never claimed to be."

"You told me yourself that you've lied to other girls you've dated."

"I fail to see any correlation between any of the girls I've ever dated and what we have," he cocked his head to one side, looking down at her as she crossed her arms, trying in vain to hold the shirt still over her torso.

"Maybe if you had to hear those girls talking about you, you'd see a more clear connection," she said quickly, not meaning to say those words. Once they were out, it was too late to back down.

"Which girls?"

"I don't know, Missy and some other girl," she waved her hand off, dismissing the importance. If only she could brush off their voices in her head as well. She winced every time she heard the pre-orgasmic certainty with which not one, but both of those girls had spoken about him. "Kaitlyn, I think."

"I never dated anyone named Kaitlyn," he frowned.

"No, but I'm willing to bet money that you fucked her," she slipped a hand over her mouth once the words were out. She hated herself a little for saying it, but it didn't make it less true.

"You knew I'd slept with other girls."

"I know, and I know it shouldn't bother me, but God, they're everywhere! I can't go to the bathroom without hearing about one of your sexual escapades!"

He stepped closer to her, his feet digging into the sand and half covering hers with the displacement. He didn't touch her, though she would have let him.

"Is that what this is about?"

She shrugged, not wanting to admit to such a petty charge. She wasn't so superficial that she listened to school gossip. She knew going into this relationship that she'd have to resist the urge to compare herself to almost every other girl in school and withstand the eyes of all the willing replacements. She just couldn't take the idea of him comparing her to other girls as well.

"I can't guard you from hearing that stuff," he leaned down, his tone as soft as if he were holding her close.

She shook her head. "I'm not asking you to."

"What are you asking? I can't read your mind, and we can't keep having fights where you're pissed for reasons you don't wish to divulge," his tone was still soft, but she knew she could swing him back to pissed off in the blink of an eye. She had to watch her words.

"It doesn't matter, it's stupid," she bit her lip, looking up at his mouth. Like lying, he was good at kissing away problems. She wished he'd let her off the hook, just this once, and not make her say it.

He smiled. "You are a bad liar."

She pushed his shoulder back, and he stumbled slightly, putting one foot back in the sand to stabilize, still smirking at her the whole time. She knew very well if he'd been prepping himself, he wouldn't have budged an inch. His defenses were down, and it was her turn to reciprocate.

"I can handle hearing them say those things," she said with all earnest. "What I can't take is the idea of you thinking about it."

He slipped his hands into the open shirt, his hands skimming the bare skin between her bikini top and bottoms. He licked his lips, dropping his gaze from her eyes to her mouth. She could see the stirrings of lust in his eyes, and her heart immediately responded by jumping into high gear.

"When you touch me, trust me, all I can think about is you."

Her eyes fluttered, as did her stomach, hearing only truth in his words. She said a silent prayer that she wasn't just wanting to believe him so much that she tricked her mind into doing so. She just couldn't find doubt when she looked in his eyes.

"I just can't compete with those girls."

"You," he leaned his head down, brushing his lips against hers, "blow all those girls," he repeated his actions, "out of the water."

He kissed her senseless as the water lapped up at their ankles, reminding them they were still rooted to the earth. She gripped his shoulders and opened her eyes slowly.

"Is that the reason for all the sudden interest in new sexual positions?"

She couldn't hold back the soft laugh. "Well, it might have been a driving factor. I know it's stupid, I just didn't want you to get bored."

He cradled her face, making her feel small and secure. Loved. "Trust me. You are never boring."

"Promise?" she held her breath for a beat, hoping he'd respond quickly and with force.

"Cross my heart, hope to die," he took her hand in his, crossing it over his heart, and tugging ever so slightly to get her even closer.

She melted into the kiss, slow and hot, willing to be taken out to sea with the tide if it meant staying in this moment with him. Her hands slid up around his neck, and his wound around her waist, allowing him to arch his back and lift her up to him. She bent her knees, feeling like she was at the end of some cheesy chick flick.

Once her feet hit the soft ground again, they began walking backward, following him as he started leading her back to the house. "About the lying," she hedged.

"Rory," he groaned.

"Just a few pointers?"

"Forget it."

"You want me to suffer the wrath of Lorelai?"

He tucked her hair behind her ear gently. "As much as I love contributing to your bad girl side," he sighed, "that's not who you are. You don't lie. If it really comes up, and you can't get around telling her, I'll take the hit."

"Tristan, no," she shook her head.

"She already doesn't trust me. She can just add it to the list of things I need to make amends for. Those things—the sex, the late hours, all of those things I can take the heat for. What I can't take is turning you into a liar."

She swallowed hard, willing herself not to cry. He was right, and she realized that she was going to have to take a stand a lot from here on out, if she wanted to stay in this relationship. She was going to have to fight for him, for them. She couldn't make excuses and lie her way out of disapproval, taking pleasure in her time with him while pretending she was still the same girl that everyone else saw her as, her entire life. Being with him was making her change, for better or worse.

She wasn't sure if she was lying to herself or everyone else.


	15. The Day that Brings Me Here

Title: Slipping Under The Surface

Chapter: 15—The Day that Brings Me Here

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I don't own anything buy my laptop, and trust me, you don't want this laptop…

Description: Sequel to Untouched… Another Trory… It starts out M because Untouched was M…

She had dark thoughts.

She kept them well hidden, under a façade of otherwise perfect features. It was hard to imagine that a straight-A student with an angel's eyes could ever wake up covered in sweat, after a hard night of running away from her own personal demons.

He knew all about the shadows of the mind, the places that thoughts go when one grows quiet and contemplative. Rarely do the good things spring forth, the mind giving way to a compilation of all the misdeeds that blend together, revealing the worst in human nature. He'd had his share of nightmares, brought on by either a guilty conscious or an unforgiving nature.

He was used to such things in his own life; the feel of sheets wound so tightly around his limbs that they resembled tourniquets after he'd put up a good fight with them over the course of a bad dream, the racing of his pulse when his eyes shot open suddenly to reveal that time had passed and he was no longer a victim. In the light of day the thoughts couldn't reach him; nothing could touch him anymore. He got to choose how strong he was, how in control he was of his life.

As he watched her writhe back and forth, not from pleasure, but in what seemed to be sheer terror, he fought back the urge to wake her. He was at once transfixed at the sight and frozen at the thought that she could have such consuming demons. He knew if he woke her up, he would be the one saving her from whatever was after her. She was strong enough to bring herself out of it, and she would want it that way. His hand nearly touched her so many times, but he slid a hand under his own head as he became her silent support, willing her to just wake herself up.

She was yelling in the dream, only murmuring to those in the waking world, her brow knit together in concentration and consternation. Her tossing slowed slightly before her body went slack and her eyes popped open. He reached out and gently touched her shoulder, not expecting her to draw into herself even further as she did. He hated that she shirked from his touch, even in this post-dream haze.

"Rory," he spoke softly, gently, wanting her to know she was safe. With him, she was always safe.

"Oh, I," she reached out and put her hand on his. "I had a, um," she shuddered, squeezing her eyes shut tightly and opening them just as quickly as she didn't like what she saw waiting for her.

"Nightmare," he whispered hoarsely. "Hang on," he scooted toward the edge of the bed far enough slide his feet out from under the covers when her hand clamped onto his elbow.

"Where are you going?"

"To get you some water," he ran a hand over her head. "You're all wet."

"Don't go," she urged, still caught up in the mindset of the dream.

He nodded and moved back into the middle of the bed, close enough to wrap an arm invitingly around her shoulders. She slid her arm all the way around his torso, tucking it under his back on the other side and swung a leg between his. She was so tight against his body, like he'd slid her on to wear like an article of clothing. He ran a hand over her back, one holding her head against his chest.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"I just want to be awake," she sighed.

"You are awake," he assured her.

She took a few deep breaths, and he felt the gusts of air that she let out against his bare chest as she gathered her courage. He looked down at her as she did a test close of her eyes. It only lasted a second, and she pulled her hand out from under his back, sliding it slowly away from his skin, down over the front of his boxers. And then she gasped.

"Oh."

"What?" he sat up a little, then noticed her hand had paused over the one part of himself he couldn't control, especially as she brushed against him.

"I didn't realize," she stammered, clearly not at the ready to roll over and help him with what she thought he needed. He groaned inwardly and moved her hand.

"No, Rory, that's not," he sighed. "That just happens."

She looked up at him in the dark. "You don't want to," she frowned.

"No. Well, I mean, yeah, but no."

She looked at him blankly through the pale light that the moon was shedding into the room. "But you're," she hesitated, "you know."

"Yeah, I know," he cleared his throat. "It's just a fact of life. Over the course of the night, it just happens. It has nothing to do with sex."

"Nothing?" she quizzed, still not grasping the concept.

"Well," he smirked, "I'm sure laying here next to you didn't help, nor did the dream I was having."

"What were you dreaming about?"

"You," he ran a finger over her cheek. "What were you dreaming about?"

She shook her head. "Tell me about your dream."

"Just your run of the mill teenage sex fantasy," he kissed her ear.

"You and triplets?" she guessed.

"Babe, I can barely handle you," he brushed her lips. "I think I'd last about a week with three of you."

"A whole week, huh?" she teased.

"Hey," he growled, leaning down to kiss just under her ear and pressing her hand that was still encased in his against his still-hard cock. "Don't make me prove myself."

She looked up at him with wide eyes. "Tristan."

He stopped his actions and hung his head in exhaustion. "Just tell me about the dream."

"It was just a dream."

"That woke you up in a fit, drenched in sweat."

"I don't want to think about it. I just want to enjoy our vacation."

There was something about the way she said it that seemed so … final. As if she'd never see him again, or they'd never have these kinds of moments to be so openly alone with one another. He shook off the eerie feeling he got from her tone and refocused on the situation at hand.

"Was I in it?"

She shook her head. "No. Not really."

He remained quiet, deciding the best way to get her to talk was to wait her out. If he did nothing, just sat there with her, maybe she'd open up. If she fell asleep, he knew there was a good chance she'd fall right back into the waiting arms of whatever hell she'd emerged from when she opened her eyes. Nightmares were easy to fall back into.

"It was like I wasn't myself," she began slowly, after such a long pause he was nearly sure she'd started to drift off sitting up in his arms.

"How so?"

"I felt like me, but when I looked at the things around me, they weren't mine. Even my reflection," she shuddered.

"Whose were they?"

"My mom's."

He frowned. He could imagine a myriad of people that it would unhinge her to see herself become—Paris, her grandmother, just to name a couple. But her mother was this symbol of things she aspired to.

"And this was the dream you just had?"

"I kept looking into the mirror, and she was yelling at me. She told me if I'd been honest with her, none of this would have happened."

"Honest with her about what?"

"I don't know. I just know everything had gone wrong. It felt like," she swallowed.

"Doom?" he supplied.

"Failure. That'd I'd failed. Everything and everyone."

He sighed and held her against him a little more tightly. He should have known that her greatest fear was letting other people down. He was quite used to the feeling and could no longer summon up even the tiniest shred of remorse when it was instigated in him. The only thing that had him up at nights these days was her.

"You haven't failed anyone."

She shuddered in his arms. "I want to believe that."

"Do you want to go home?" he asked, wondering if he'd really take her if she said yes.

"I want to be here, with you."

He tried to settle them down under the covers again. She turned her back to him, then pulled her arm out of the blankets and tucked her legs against his. He pulled her back with his arms around her waist, his body flush to hers.

"Can you sleep now?"

"Yeah," she breathed. "Tristan?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you," she whispered, and then there was silence. Her ribs were moving under his arms at an even pace, and as quickly as she'd woken she was out again.

With two more nights to go in this seclusion, he wondered if he was really the source of relief or the source of the panic. Her dream had unhinged him, not quite in the same way it had her. He knew if they weren't careful, her very perfect world could easily shatter. Anything he did to her would just be added to the laundry list of personal shames he'd inflicted on his father's name, something that could be disposed of the same way he got rid of anything.

But making those mistakes with her, he was sure, would haunt him like nothing else had.

XXXX

He squinted even before he opened his eyes. There was sunlight pouring in through the windows on two sides of the room. Once his eyes focused enough to the bright yellow light, he noticed all the shades had been pulled up and drapes tethered back. His arms, so full all night, were now empty and there were just wrinkles on the sheets where her body had been.

"Rory?" he called. He waited the obligatory five seconds before calling her name again. When he still got no answer, he flipped off the remaining sheets and forced his body upright.

He didn't bother pulling on jeans or a robe, as he normally would even at the vacation house. His family wasn't the casual kind of wear whatever type, even when on holiday. Thanks to nannies and other forms of staff, his parents had rarely seen him in less than full dress his entire life. He took the stairs two at a time and the aroma of a coffee house overwhelmed him. He rounded into the kitchen and just looked at the sight of her.

She'd pulled her hair up off her neck hastily, probably on her way down the stairs, and she was wearing his t-shirt from the day before, which fell down to her thighs. He couldn't see what she wore for bottoms, but he assumed she was just in her underwear, which he remembered felt like a bikini cut as his hands had skimmed over her hips in the middle of the night.

"You're up early," he yawned as he came around to stand next to her and investigate.

"Must be the fresh air. And I wanted coffee."

"We could have gone out for coffee," he pointed out.

She shrugged and turned her back to the percolating pot. "I found some. You have Kona coffee," she said, wide-eyed, and he swore he almost saw stars in them.

"Okay," he yawned again. "I take it that's good?"

"Mmm," she murmured and put a coffee cup under the drip instead of the pot. He cocked his head, watching her as she waited impatiently, shifting her weight from one side to the other in anticipation.

"You want me to leave you two alone?" he asked as she did the switch for the cup and pot again and brought the cup up to her lips. Her eyes fluttered shut as she took her first drink, adding no sugar or cream, focusing on him only after it'd passed down her throat.

"Want some?"

"Well, if it's that good," he took the cup from her and nearly choked on the aroma. He was no better off when he got the liquid into his mouth. "That's strong." He handed the cup back over to its rightful owner.

"That's how I like my coffee," she shrugged. "Just let me get a cup or two down, then we can do something."

He blinked, needing his own means of waking up. "I think I'm gonna take a run. You want to join me?" he nuzzled her shoulder briefly.

The look on her face suggested that he had offered to pour her coffee down the drain and replace it with instant. He shook his head and grinned at her. "You'll find some way of amusing yourself? I won't be gone long."

"I think I'll just hang out here with Mr. Coffee," she patted the coffeemaker gently.

He brushed his lips over hers. The flavor of coffee was less harsh when filtered by the taste of her mixed in. He ran his tongue over his lips to appreciate it again.

"You do like it," she accused.

He liked her, in his kitchen in the morning and making herself at home. He liked being half naked in her presence and being able to taste her on his skin. "Look through the paper, see if there's anything you want to do when I get back," he encouraged. "Otherwise you're at my mercy when it comes to picking the day's activities."

She nodded and nudged his butt. "Shoo, and let me enjoy my coffee."

He shook his head and went back upstairs to change into something more suitable for leaving the house. He could always count on a run to clear his head and wake his body up. Maybe he'd get a good idea or two about how to calm Rory down about the circumstances of their being able to have this time alone together. There had to be a way to keep her out of trouble with her mother. Being around her was doing nothing for his ability to reason or focus, especially with her new-found wild streak and how amazing she looked wearing his clothes and nothing else.

XXXX

He didn't have any brilliant ideas, but he'd put his body through a good work out. He'd run hard and long, testing his body more than he needed to. He could feel a slight burn in his legs, which he ignored until it started to feel phantom. He let himself in through the back door, almost positive he'd find her reading one of her books that she'd stuffed in her backpack, drinking her fifth cup of coffee. He stopped at the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water, which he drank in one long, continuous motion. He tossed the bottle into the recycle bin and jogged lightly up the stairs. He peeked into their bedroom, to find only her backpack on the bed, unzipped halfway to reveal she'd done some digging. He paused at the closed bathroom door and knocked. It was his house, but her privacy after all.

"Come in," she called.

He opened the door and hesitantly put his head around the corner. She was in the bathtub, which she'd overfilled with bubbles, only her head and arms sticking out as she flipped her page over.

"How was your run?"

"It's hot out there," he stood to the side of the tub. "What are you doing?"

"You said to make myself at home," she half closed her book, using her finger as a bookmark. "This is how I unwind."

He couldn't say that it looked totally stressful, but the sight of her at the moment was doing nothing to release his tension. In fact, all he was managing to do was forget that he cared how pissed her mother might be once they got back and the fact that she might do her best to keep them from seeing each other. Right now, he was seeing almost as much of her as he'd ever thought possible, and he had definite plans to see the rest of her.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

He shook his head and took her book from her, not bothering with saving her page as he laid it down on the side of the sink. He stripped off his wet shirt, leaving it in a heap on the floor, his running shorts following suit to join the shirt.

Her mouth opened slightly as she watched him and his growing level of tension he'd just exposed to her. "Is that something that just happens, when you run?"

He smirked. "'Fraid not. I definitely want something."

"I'm relaxing," she teased him as he took a step closer to the tub.

"Well, you're making me very tense. Maybe I should join you," he stepped into the hot water with one foot, making the water slosh around a bit as it began to displace to make room for him. She slid up, looking panicked.

"I don't know that there's enough room for two," she began as the water level rose dangerously high, threatening to spill over the lip.

"I really don't care," he said as the water covered his body, heating up his already warm muscles. "Come here," he reached out under the water to make contact with her slick skin. He pulled her easily through the water, repositioning her to sit with her back against his chest. She let out a breath and relaxed against him. "How's that?"

"Still relaxing," she sighed, sounding content.

"I'm not done," he whispered in her ear, letting his hand fall from her shoulder, down her arm and disappearing under the water again. He held tight to her with one hand wrapped around her stomach, pressing flat against her.

"We probably shouldn't," she began, her words lacking the conviction to finish the complete thought as his hand traced the outline of her form. He had mapped out her body so many times before, but he never tired of it. One must have priorities in this life, and one of his had become learning with just how much pressure and in what places he needed to touch her to make her go limp against him. His right hand was canvassing her torso, from her shoulder, down over her breast, his palm grazing her nipple when he felt her back melt against his chest.

"Shouldn't what?" he let his hand fall down into her lap, off her stomach, slipping between her legs. She elicited an unintelligible word. "What was that?"

"Get used to all this freedom," she parted her legs in the sudsy water, giving him room to invade her.

"Why?" he kissed her neck, pushing aside stray bubbles that had attached themselves to her skin with his nose.

Her head fell back against his shoulder, and her hands searched out his arms. She ran her fingers over him, encouraging him to touch her. "Well, first off, my mother is going to lock me away until I'm so old you won't recognize me," her words got more strained as he increased his pressure and localized his efforts. "And even if she doesn't," she sucked in a breath of air as he slipped another finger inside her. "We just can't do this."

"We should take advantage of this time because of that," he assured her, wishing he could move his mouth down to replace his lips in a suitable fashion. He appeased his desire by kissing the hollow of her shoulder and watching his hand on her breast through a gap in the bubbles.

"Tristan," she strained against his hand, arching her back up off of his torso and allowing water to rush between their bodies, the liquid feeling almost cold in comparison to the heat they were generating. Her smooth skin was too slick to grind against his lap, but the weightless caress was in no way any less erotic as she slipped across him.

She was turning in the water before he knew it, all he could do was keep his hands on her hips as she moved so quickly the water sloshed over the edge of the tub and onto the ceramic floor. She was over him, facing him, and he couldn't think. His mouth latched onto the closest part of her, a breast, his hands making long stroke up the sides of her spine. She was making him lose his mind, grinding as best she could against him, raising her body and lowering it over and over again, aided in every way by his hands on her hips.

"This is how it happens," she whispered in his ear, pulling him back to the brink of reality.

"What?" he looked at her, up into her eyes as she had raised herself up again. He was twitching for contact, he wanted to be inside her.

"Even if we don't make a mistake here, right now," she swallowed. "I can't do this here with you and go home and pretend like nothing happened."

"No one will be able to tell," he promised her.

"I'll know. I'll want to," she bit her lip, and he began to understand what was going on in her mind. "I'll want to be with you, like this. And it's not that I don't want to. We're just tempting fate."

"Rory."

Her eyes flashed with sadness. "Look at us."

He knew, on some level, that she was right. It took one instance, such as this, to get caught up in how good she felt, how badly his body was screaming for hers, and everything she was afraid of would come to life. She was already dealing with it at night, and now here he was, her nightmare in plain daylight.

"Maybe you should go get dressed," he said quietly, not quite recognizing the sound of his own voice.

He felt her hand on his chest as she paused over him. "Tristan, I didn't mean," she began.

"I know what you meant. You want to slow down, you're afraid," he started, feeling the desire for her melt into a quiet rage. "I didn't make you do any of this. All weekend, you've come on all hot and heavy, I didn't ask for any of that," he said, if nothing else, his tone forcing her out of the tub. He watched as she wrapped a towel around her body and turned back to face him.

"You didn't stop me, either," she said, not sure yet why he was mad, but she was joining him anyway.

"Damn it, Rory, what was I supposed to do? You can't use me as an excuse not to get hurt. I'm not going to hurt you, but you act like you're hell bent on proving to me that every body else is right!"

"You don't want things to be like this? You don't want to have sex and get out of control? Because a second ago, you were very into it," she yelled, he feared loud enough to shatter the mirrors.

"I don't want it at the expense of pushing you away," he looked her square in the eye. "If I wanted sex, I can find that anywhere. I wanted you."

"I want you, too! That's the problem!"

"What do you want, me to keep you in line? Because if you're going to be looking at me like you want to drag me into a dark room, I'm not equipped not to give you what you want. I can't be the good little boy that makes you feel wanted and desired and not do a damn thing about it," he stood up and grabbed his own towel, wrapping it around his waist quickly.

She crossed her arms, and she was trying to think fast. "I can't… I'm not ready for this."

He caught her by the elbow, in his best attempt to get her to look him in the eyes. "Not ready for what?"

"This," she pointed between them. "Us."

"You," he frowned and something inside him sank. "You're ending this?"

"Better now than later, right? I mean, it's one thing for us to be able to feel this way now, over the summer when it's just the two of us. But we can't keep this up, either I'll get pregnant or the school year will start and you'll realize that you're just tied down and want to move on anyway."

She was carving out more and more room in his core. "If you don't want to be with me," he said in a low voice, "fine. But do not blame this on me," he said with finality and left her standing alone in the bathroom.

And then his world grew very dark.


	16. Black and White

Title: Slipping Under The Surface

Chapter: 16—Black and White

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I don't own anything buy my laptop, and trust me, you don't want this laptop…

Description: Sequel to Untouched… Another Trory… It starts out M because Untouched was M…

He was getting on with his life.

There were no attempts to reverse the decision he'd made in letting her walk away, no grand gestures or sincere, if not wildly inappropriate, heartfelt confessions made in a public arena to get her back. In fact, any and every thing she'd ever seen a male do in a movie to win back a girl after a break up seemed to not even register as worthy of his time.

He was going to work, hanging out with his friends, going on dates. He had forgotten all about her, as if all the time they'd spent together had been erased from existence. He was living in a world where she failed to exist, just like before she'd come to Chilton. But more than that, he lived in a world where he'd met her and chose that he was better off being without her.

At least, these were the things she told herself while she wallowed in her pajamas on the couch, watching whatever DVD her mother insisted would make her get all her tears out (surprisingly _High Fidelity_ was a bigger tear-jerker than _Ghost_ on this occasion) and eating her body weight in ice cream and pizza. Just when she thought she was out of tears, in fact, more sprang out, like an undiscovered well had been tapped. Perhaps carbohydrates turned directly into water in her body. It would explain a lot, not in the least her recent tear production. She could turn herself over to Paris Gellar as a science experiment come fall, she was some kind of freak genetic hydro-carb machine.

Fall. Though they were still in the staggeringly hot days of August, the fall semester was close at her heels. She had no choice but to pull it together now in these last days of summer school, because they were the last she would be able to walk around like a zombie, not caring who saw how heartbroken she was. Come fall, he would be back in those halls, seeing how pathetic she was without him. And she wasn't pathetic. Wallowing didn't make her pathetic. She only allowed herself to wallow after it became agonizingly apparent that she needed to do something to get the constantly looping instant replay of their last fight out of her mind.

It was bad enough she'd had to call her mother to come get her from the Vineyard. She had to explain, after they got back to Stars Hollow, that her mother's assumption had been correct. They'd broken up. Lorelai had taken pity on her, not grounding her for lying to her about the nature of the trip, as Rory became all about school and nothing else.

And there was something to be said for wallowing. It'd helped her get over Dean, after all, so it must be a surefire method of getting over he who broke your heart. Her mother, who was in a healthy relationship and getting married, was an advocate, so all in all, it had to work. Right?

She put her books in her locker and took a long pause. She knew her classmates were still discussing her recent break up. The female population had instantly gone into a tizzy, getting themselves buffed and coifed in anticipation of his needing someone to help him get over her. She put a hand on the book she needed for her first class, but she didn't make the commitment of pulling it out.

"Are you okay?"

She turned to look over her right shoulder. Madeline was standing there, with her head cocked in sympathy.

"I'm fine."

"Because I know you have to be upset. You shouldn't even be here today. The vultures are out, and you've very sensitive right now."

"I'm not sensitive. There are no vultures," she grabbed the book and put it in her open back pack. "I'm here because I'm fine and I have class. I used to have a boyfriend, now I don't. Life goes on."

"I mean, it's probably smart to do a trial run. But you have no idea what it's going to be like when the semester starts."

She'd thought of nothing else. "I told you, I'm fine."

Madeline cocked her head to the other side. "Look, I know I shouldn't be telling you this," she sighed. "But I've seen it before. I can tell you what to expect so the blows won't be so bad."

"This isn't a sparring match. We broke up. We're not fighting."

The brunette didn't believe her. "He's going to make sure you see him touching another girl. Any other girl. The girl doesn't matter, at least, not to him."

The image stained her mind's eye, and she cringed. Wallowing hadn't done her wonders. She still remembered with startling clarity their last fight, his last words. And if there would be one way for him to retaliate, it would be to make her watch him with another girl. She had to be strong. She would not give in to such petty things. They broke up for a reason. A good reason. She should be concentrated on school and her future. Not who he had his arm around or whose throat his tongue was shoved down.

She wished she could just forget the fact that he would never shove his tongue down a girl's throat. All she'd be able to know was how soft his lips were, how playful his tongue was, how dizzy she could get just by standing close enough to him when he looked down at her lips in preparation to dive in….

"Rory? Are you sure you're okay? You're all flushed."

She snapped out of it. "I'm fine. Look, we're not dating anymore, so he can see whomever he wants. It's fine; I'm fine," she stressed the last word again.

Madeline smiled sadly. "Well, if you find yourself not fine, you can call me."

Rory smiled back. "I appreciate that. I really do. "

The other girl nodded. "I'll let you get to class. Are you going on the Art History field trip this afternoon?"

Rory nodded. "Yeah."

"I'll see you there, then," she promised, which was actually reassuring. A friendly face on a class trip right now was almost better than a cup of coffee. She did her best to put all her lingering problems to the back of her mind and trudged off to the first class of the day.

XXXX

"Stay together! The tour guide will be narrating your way through the gallery; take notes, as all of the information you gain today will be fair game for your next exam. I repeat, stay together, no wandering off! Mr. Bowman, this especially applies to you!"

Rory looked around the crowd that had gathered, though most people were too preoccupied with their side conversations to make eye contact with her. Madeline gave her a finger wave before ambling off with Louise and Paris, who did make eye contact, but failed to look anything but constipated at seeing her. Rory frowned and continued on, until she saw a very familiar form taking up the rear of the group.

Heat rose in her cheeks, and the urge to tattle on him to the teacher was great. She tried to swallow it down. His actions didn't affect her. He wasn't here for her—he hadn't even looked her direction. He was whispering conspiratorially with Bowman and another kid that looked shifty. She was here to listen to the tour guide and learn. And that's what she intended to do.

By the third room they'd wandered slowly into, she couldn't focus anymore on the monotone voice that was droning on about techniques of brush strokes. She would need a vat of coffee to gain enough of an attention span. She doubted the museum allowed food or drink in the galleries, so she opted to splash some cold water on her face instead. She slipped out silently to the bathroom, noting that Tristan had already lost interest and left. He must have just dropped by to make plans with his friends, no doubt to plan some party that he at one time claimed bored him. He'd confided so many things in her, and right now she had to wonder if any of it had been true. If he hated it so much, how could he go back to that lifestyle so quickly? If he found comfort in it, then he couldn't claim to loathe it.

She wrote it off as a technique he'd employed to get in her pants, and damn him, it'd worked. She'd let him into more than her pants. And like it or not, she had to deal with all of the consequences that came with that fact.

She blotted at her face with a paper towel and exited the bathroom quickly. She went back out into the room she'd just come from, expecting to find the herd of bored students still standing in the same spot. They'd moved, and not just across the room. She darted to the next room, but found no trace of her group. She backtracked and moved to the other gallery off the first room. No luck. Taking a big sigh, she wondered how much trouble she'd get into for having her party paged. Her only option was a room by room search.

She wandered through the modern art room, with all the bright colors and symbolic meanings, and it didn't agree with her state of mind. She needed soothing colors and concrete objects. Bowls of fruit. Country landscapes. She found herself standing in front of several Monet paintings, mesmerized.

"Big fan of _Water Lilies_?"

The voice didn't have the effect on her she'd thought it would. She thought it would make her want to run, like the sight of him had. Instead, she felt as if she were being enveloped into a warm blanket. Like he was all around her.

"It's pretty."

"I always liked Van Gogh better."

"At least Monet never cut off his ear."

"Shouldn't you be with your group learning more about the differences between the two?"

She turned to face him. Now the urge to run was great. Until she saw him, nothing had happened. They were talking like they had millions of times before. It was just her and the man that she could tell anything to, the one that told her personal things about himself. The man that she'd been intimate with. Now she stood in front of the man that had seen her naked. The room was suddenly devoid of oxygen.

"Why are you here?"

"It's a museum, and I am a patron."

She rolled her eyes. "Your parents are patrons."

"The board of director would beg to differ with you."

"You shouldn't be here."

He shrugged. "What do you care if I'm here or not?"

She crossed her arms. "I don't."

"You're lying."

Her eyes shot up to meet his. "Stop it."

He didn't smirk. "Stop what?"

"You can't do that, Tristan!"

"Do what, exactly? We've already established I have a right to be in the museum. What else am I doing that offends you?"

"You can't read me like that! You can't assume how I'm feeling based on what I look like or act like."

"You want me to pretend not to know you?"

He looked as if the proposition hadn't occurred to him. It was all she'd been praying for. "It sounds stupid when you say it like that."

"Like what?"

"I don't know… out loud!" she stressed, her hands flying up a little in frustration.

"Shhh!" a security guard warned as he passed by.

"Way to get me in trouble," he whispered.

"Shut up!" she hissed.

"You know, I'm just here to enjoy the art. I didn't come here looking for you."

"I know," she diverted her eyes.

"Do you? Are you sure some little part of you wasn't hoping that I'd come to talk to you when you saw me in the lobby?"

Was this a game to him? She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of thinking she was pining for him. She wasn't pining for him. She didn't want him back. She just wanted to move on with her life.

"Positive."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Because I didn't realize you would be here today."

She shrugged. "Fine. Whatever. I mean, it doesn't matter. I should find the class."

He looked at her for a moment, for the briefest moment, like he didn't want her to go. She waivered, just in that moment, and wanted to stay. "You probably should."

The moment was over. She nodded and took a step away from the painting, into the middle of the room. She could feel the need for a second wallowing session spring up, and she prayed that she could at least make it to the bus before the tears started.

Before she could decide if her eyes were visibly moist or not, a blaring siren went off, and bars started descending from the ceiling at each room exit. She turned in a circle, looking for a way out. She settled on him, still standing by the Monet, now with his hands shoved in his pockets.

"What is that?" she covered her ears and stepped closer as she yelled.

"Alarm system!" he yelled back.

"When will it stop?" she yelled.

"I don't," he yelled as it stopped, "know!"

He looked taken aback as it stopped, and they both looked around to the gates. A voice came over the alarm system to tell them there had been an incident that required investigation. None of the security gates would lift until that matter had been sorted out. Their patience was appreciated.

"Perfect," she muttered.

"Just calm down," he ordered.

"Calm down? Calm down?! I'm away from my group, I haven't had coffee since six in the morning, and I'm stuck in a cage with you!"

"You know, a couple weeks ago, you wouldn't have thought this was such a death sentence," he spouted.

"Yeah? Well a couple of weeks ago I didn't have the entire school looking at me like I was either suicidal or a leper," she began.

"Since when do you care what other people think?" he inquired.

"I don't. Never mind," she turned her back on him.

"Fine by me," he turned as well.

"You know what?" she turned back around, earning a sigh from him and a look of expectation. "You don't get to be all 'whatever' with me! You don't belong here; you shouldn't even BE here, so you can't be put out by my being upset to be stuck with you!"

"Excuse me?"

"This is probably your fault anyhow. What, did your idiot friends pull the fire alarm?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he evaded.

"Don't play dumb with me, Tristan. It doesn't suit you."

"If you want to talk about people not having rights to be upset, then you should try looking in a mirror. You were the one that didn't want to be together anymore."

"Hence my displeasure at being encaged with you."

"What did you expect? For me to avoid you so you wouldn't have to face the consequences of your decision? And I do mean your decision."

His words had their desired effect. She doubted her decision. Maybe it hurt so badly because she just missed him. Maybe she should have been the one to go to him and rectify what had gone wrong. But she hadn't. She'd been so sure what she'd done had been for the best. Suddenly she felt like she was about to be sick.

"No response? None at all?"

"You want to punish me, is that what this is about?"

"I don't want to punish you," he looked down.

"Then what? You want me to tell you it was a mistake? That I regret it?"

"Do you?"

Now she had no response. He'd rendered her speechless, talked her into that proverbial corner. If ever she wanted to run, it was now. She had no way out. Fortunately or not, he took her silence as an answer.

"That's what I thought."

"Tristan," she sighed wearily.

"What?"

His tone surprised her. It was sharp, like he was on the offence. He wasn't playing off of what she said, he was guarding himself.

"Do you hate me?"

He sat down against the wall, his head just a foot or two underneath the bottom of the frames. "No."

She looked down at him. "Really?"

He looked up at her. "Do you hate me?"

She shook her head. "No. Not at all."

He nodded. "So, we're not enemies," he declared.

"What are we?"

He looked away. "I don't know."

That did nothing to make the queasy feeling in her stomach dissipate. She sat down next to him and let the silence wash over them. She turned her head to look at him, but he remained stoic, lost in thought. She tried to think of something to say, something to make it easier to be sitting so close to him, but all she wanted to do was kiss him.

It was too soon to be with him, alone with him, without wanting to do all the things they used to do when they achieved alone time. She wanted to feel his hands grab hold of the fabric at her waist and his knee slip between her legs to idle closer to her. She slid her hands palm down under her butt and let out a deep breath.

"I never thought about what would happen," he said suddenly.

She looked up at him. "What?"

"You know, if we broke up," he said softly. "It never occurred to me that we'd have to do this awkward thing. It's one thing if you really hate the person, but I knew I couldn't hate you."

"Oh."

"So, I don't really know what to do now."

"Me either."

"I don't think we can be friends," he admitted.

"No."

"But I can't act like I don't know you."

She nodded. "O-okay."

"Are you two with the Chilton group?" a security guard was on the other part of the gate suddenly, with a notepad and pen.

"I am," Rory stood up.

"And you?"

"I'm just here on my lunch break. I'm interning with my father's law firm," he stood as well.

"We'll get word to your instructor. Just sit tight, and we'll try to get you folks out of here as soon as we can."

Rory nodded. "Thank you."

The security guard walked away, and Rory turned to Tristan. "You really don't know what's going on?"

"How could I? I was in here, talking about Monet with you."

"Tristan," she looked at him with concern. "I thought you were done with those guys. You said you hated all that stuff, the parties, the stupid pranks," she began.

"Look, I'm fine."

She shook her head. "You just said we can't pretend not to know each other."

"I also said we couldn't be friends. You don't want to care about me anymore, that's your prerogative. But you can't turn it on and off. You're in or you're out."

She wasn't sure if he was truly giving her a choice, or simply telling her that she'd already made it and to butt out. Knowing him, she thought it was the latter, though she hoped it was the prior. What's worse was she knew he was standing there, watching her try to figure it out. He was less than a foot away from her, watching her every thought flash through her mind. Her thoughts weren't the only thing he was watching. He scanned her body, quickly, as if not to be caught, and settled on her lips. Perhaps just in case she was able to say she was in.

She was incapable of doing so, however, as she remembered why she couldn't be with him. The very desire she had to give in to him now was why she couldn't be with him.

She just wasn't sure if she'd ever be able to move on from him.


	17. I Don't Need Your Reasons

Title: Slipping Under The Surface

Chapter: 17—I Don't Need Your Reasons

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I don't own anything buy my laptop, and trust me, you don't want this laptop…

Description: Sequel to Untouched… Another Trory… It starts out M because Untouched was M…

She stood out in a crowd.

It wasn't like she tried. She didn't wear the most expensive outfits or the latest fashion trends. She didn't wear much make-up or try out edgy hairstyles. She only commanded the attention of everyone in a room if called upon, never to entertain others or stroke her own ego. Most often she was content to blend in and go unnoticed.

He told himself the only reason he noticed her at all was because of the distance she'd put between her and the other party-goers. It was just the same as his unwillingness to admit that it was relief that flooded his system as he realized she was having a much better time sitting in this room by herself than most everyone else in the house—all the others that were well past drunk and pressing their bodies into as many people as possible to find their fun and get their egos stroked.

He hadn't been looking for her. He was just coming back from the bathroom, at a party. A Hartford party, which may as well have been the Moon when it came to places he expected to find her. She'd only come to these parties in the past to be with him. He really didn't care to stand back and imagine why she'd come tonight. He knew very well it wasn't for him; she'd made it very clear that he wasn't included in her decisions any longer.

That fact alone should have been enough to allow him to walk on by and back to the party. Perhaps a stronger man, a smarter man, would have done just that. But the idea that she was here with someone else had firmly burrowed under his collar and made him take a right turn into the sitting room, cross his arms, and watch as she turned a page in _Our Town_.

"Who are you here with?"

It wasn't his best opener, or one she appreciated. It was impossible for him not to notice as her face revealed her disgust once her eyes came up off the page to meet his eyes.

"Excuse me?"

He shrugged and stepped closer, letting go of the last shot he had at pretending not to care.

"You look like you're waiting for someone."

She glanced at her book, as if she were longing to go back to that reality instead of remaining in this one where she was accosted by his presence. "I am."

He should have kept walking, right past this room. Right past her and back to the loud party that would allow him not to care about anything. He'd never have believed it until now, but sometimes not knowing really was better than knowing.

"Tristan?"

"Mmmm?" he looked over to her again.

She sighed. "I thought we couldn't be friends."

He took a step toward the window, stepping past the chair where she sat with her book in her lap, and ran his hand over the plush material of the dressing. It was much thicker than the dress she'd chosen to wear tonight. He'd never seen her in that dress before.

"So?"

"So," she said pointedly, "we're talking at a party. Seems friendly to me."

"You want me to go?" he asked, trying to cover pain with indifference.

She shrugged. "I don't want to fight with you, Tristan."

She never did. He wanted to say it was better than not speaking at all, but he just nodded. "Me either."

"But you probably should go."

He turned and observed her. He examined her, if truth be told. He studied her in an obvious way that gave her no option but to blush. Her certainly wasn't about to go. Not now, when his most pressing question remained unanswered.

"Is that a new dress?"

She looked down, her cheeks still tinged with deep pink. "Oh. No. It's Lorelai's."

He raised an eyebrow. "She knows you're here?"

She nodded. "She thought it was a good idea for me to get out for a bit. Have some fun before school starts and everything."

He was more curious than ever. Lorelai wasn't the typical mother type, but he couldn't imagine her encouraging her daughter to go to a society party. "So, who did you come with?"

She sighed again. "Tristan." She lost her place in her book as her finger slipped from between the closed covers. "Does it matter?"

He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Yes."

She raised her eyebrows. "Why?"

"Because whoever it is left you all alone. Or, you left him all alone. Either way, at the rate people couple up downstairs, you're probably out of a ride home."

"I drove," she smiled, as if she were beginning to enjoy this conversation. He found no pleasure whatsoever, especially in the fact that she was now making fun of him. His annoyance grew as her smile widened.

"You do realize that the guy is supposed to pick the girl up; that's how the whole dating thing works."

"Well, when only one person has a car to drive, it limits options."

Now it was his turn to smirk. "He doesn't have a car?"

"No, she doesn't," Rory cocked her head.

He frowned. "Wait. She?"

"Lane came with me. Not that it matters," she opened her book again and tried to find where she left off.

He smirked again, his mind almost relieved. "So, where is Lane?"

"Downstairs. Apparently it's hard to find a sixteen-year-old Korean whose both pre-med and can bust a move, so it's been rough pulling her away from Henry Cho."

Tristan nodded. "Then why aren't you down there too?"

She gave him an accusatory look. "I don't dance."

"Yes, you do," he needled.

"Not… normally."

"You're really just going to sit up here and read?"

He wasn't sure why he was giving her such a hard time. He couldn't very well ask her to dance, or ask her to change her mind about the break up. No way in hell was he going to beg her to be his girlfriend. He didn't ask girls for anything. Yet he stood there, watching as she shrugged. Her shoulders were held stiff and tight, and there was hesitation in her eyes. Even if he hadn't intended on wearing her down, he might have just succeeded.

"Why'd you even come?" he questioned, pressing her further. Finally asking the one thing he wanted to know.

She took a breath, holding it for a while. "Madeline invited me. She's been trying to get me to go out and do things ever since…," she trailed off, not wanting him to know the rest of her thoughts, as if he couldn't fill in the blanks. "Anyhow, she told me that I had to come tonight, how it was the last major party before school started, and that I needed to just relax and have a good time. I mentioned it to Lorelai, and she was supportive, then I asked Lane, and she broke some sort of sound barrier getting to my house to go to a real party outside of Stars Hollow," she shrugged. "It just seemed like a good idea."

"So, you're here, having fun?" he asked, not sure she was doing as she said. She enjoyed curling up with a good book, but generally she didn't head to a party to do so.

She chewed her lip. "Yeah, sure."

"Rory," he sighed, knowing there was more. Apparently the urge to draw these things out of her didn't just stop because he wanted it to. His concern for her was second nature at this point.

"Why do you care?" she looked at him pointedly.

"What?" he asked, taken aback. As he continued to build the conversation up, trying to draw her out and get her to talk to him, he hadn't prepared for her to point the questions back at him. Not that she was showing concern for him—she was just deflecting his attention off of her.

"Well, you said last time that I couldn't have it both ways. I either had to be with you or not, that we couldn't be friends. Besides that, I'm sure you have a date somewhere that's wondering where you are, so you don't have to stand there and take pity on me."

"I don't."

She looked up at him, now confused. "You don't what?"

He cleared his throat. "Have a date."

Her face softened, but her confusion remained. "Oh."

"And I'm not taking pity on you."

"So, what? We're friends?"

He ran a hand through his hair. He hated this. It would be easy to push her away, which would make this separation so much easier for both of them. He knew that for sure, because this standing next to her and trying to talk to her without actively comforting her was killing him. He knew something else had happened, something that had driven her away from her comfort zone of Stars Hollow and into the weird world of affluence that she was so uncomfortable in.

"Is that what you wanted?"

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"When you broke up with me. Did you expect us to stay friends?"

She looked away from him. "I didn't expect anything," she said quietly. She remained silent, the only noise between them the reverberating noises coming from the party below. "What do you want?"

He took a step closer to her, slowly, and leaned down to her as she continued to sit in the chair. Her eyes were full of questions, but he swore as he closed in on her he saw relief in them as well, so he pressed his lips to hers after what seemed like a lifetime away from them.

He hadn't meant to scare her--only to answer her question. He'd wondered during the last few weeks if the last time they'd been together had been too overwhelming for her. If that's what had pushed her away so fast. Not that she'd bothered to ever explain her reasoning to him. All he knew was she told him that she didn't want to be with him anymore. But, as she responded to his kiss, he knew she still wanted him. It was what kicked up a sweet kiss of longing into an open-mouthed, hands in hair, him pulling her up by the waist and pressing her into his body kind of kiss. He couldn't form a coherent thought by the time they pulled back for air, let alone keep hold of her. He opened his eyes a moment later, just in time to see the panic race across her features as she put two fingers to her swollen lips. A second later she emitted a noise of concern, grabbed her book, and took off out of the room.

He stood there for a moment, like a deer caught in headlights, trying to gauge what had happened. A second later, he was out the same door, looking for the blur of brown hair that was no doubt cutting a line through the crowd of their peers toward the front door.

"Rory!" he called out, using his elbows as he made his own way through. He stopped momentarily, looking to the right and left before he finally caught a glimpse of her. She was standing with two Koreans, grabbing the girl's shoulder. Lane Kim looked up, locking eyes with him. He took a deep breath and made his way toward them.

"Rory!"

"Lane, let's go," Rory urged, fishing for her keys in her purse.

"Rory, will you please just stop?" he asked from over her shoulder.

"Does this mean you're staying?" Henry asked Lane, his voice full of hope.

"Um, I'm really sorry," Lane smiled regrettfully at Henry.

"Lane, now!" Rory urged, still not looking at Tristan as she moved to the other side of her best friend.

"Can I call you?" Henry stepped up, putting more people between Tristan and Rory.

Tristan tried to sidestep the budding couple. "Rory, just come back up and talk to me."

She shook her head, not willing to look at him. "Uh, my last name is Kim, we're the only ones in Stars Hollow," Lane spit out hastily as she looked at the urgency on her friend's face.

The two girls started toward the front door, and Tristan took off after them, still calling her name. As soon as they got out the door, it was easier for him to catch up to them, his strides able to extend much longer than theirs had. By the time Rory tried to get her key in the door of her mother's Jeep, he had his hand pressed against the door to prevent it from opening.

"Go away, Tristan," Rory pleaded, still trying to unlock her door.

"Will you please just talk to me?"

"Rory, what's going on?" Lane asked from the front of the Jeep. "Do you want me to give you some more time?"

He looked up at the hopeful best friend and nodded. "That would be great."

"No, we're leaving," Rory assured her friend. She turned to face him. "Let go of my door."

"Not until you agree to talk to me."

"About what?"

"I'm sorry about the kiss, okay?"

"I'm just going to go give Henry my number," Lane backed away.

"No, Lane, we're leaving," Rory said again.

"Are you running away because you hated it or because you loved it?" he pushed her.

"What?" she turned away from her door to face him. "Are you crazy?"

"Because you were an active participant in that kiss. What I don't understand is why you ran away."

"I didn't run away!"

"Looked like it to me."

"I had to go. We have to go," she looked up to find her friend had left them in privacy and returned to her dance partner.

"Why did you come here?"

She crossed her arms.

"Look, forget about the kiss. Forget that you broke up with me, forget that we can't carry on a normal conversation because of all the weirdness between us—just forget all that. Get in the Jeep."

He held open the door for her and she climbed inside. He walked around to the passenger side and got in. She relaxed against the seat and closed her eyes.

"What's going on?"

"Max is back," she said quietly.

"Yeah?"

She nodded. "The wedding is next weekend. Mom was so happy to see him that she suggested that he start moving in early. Well, that and his apartment is being painted, and she told him this weekend would be like a trial run. I just wasn't sure what to do at the house, with him there. So I came here."

"Makes sense."

She looked up at him. "Really?"

"You don't do well with change," he pointed out softly.

"Yeah."

"And it's always been just your mom and you."

"Yeah."

"So, that's the only reason you came?"

She looked at him. "I didn't think you'd be here."

He shrugged. "You know me. Never miss a party."

She bit her lip. "I'm sorry I ran away."

"It wasn't a bad kiss."

She looked down. "No. It wasn't."

"But it upset you."

"I… it isn't what you think."

"Rory."

She looked up at him. "I really am sorry."

"What for?"

"I love being with you," she said with regret. "But right now, I just can't."

"Because of Harvard?"

She smiled softly. "Because I don't even know if it's going to be Harvard."

"What?"

"There's so much going on, and we're sixteen. It was one thing, when I dated Dean. Being with him didn't change anything else about my life. It was just easy and fun. It didn't affect anything."

"But you didn't love him," he couldn't help the words that escaped his mouth.

"No," she shook her head. "I didn't. I love you, and I don't want to hurt you, but I'm just not ready for all the things that being in love brings. Being with you, it made me question everything I'd ever known."

"So, you're scared?"

She looked up at him in surprise. "Aren't you?"

"I'm not afraid of you," he said with all honesty, his blue eyes burning into hers.

She reached out and took his hand. "It's not you. It's all the things I want to do, all the things I have to do. I want to be sure why I'm not sure if Harvard is the right school for me. And I don't think I can do that when all I can think about is being with you."

"So, that's it? I don't get a say?"

She looked at him, in apparent agony. "Tristan," she shook her head.

"I don't care where you go to school. I know you'll get into every school in the country if you apply. I don't care if we go to the same school. That's years away," he pointed out.

"True, but," she hiccuped.

"All I know is that right now, I'm in love with you. I hate trying to pretend that I don't want to come see you or call you, kiss you," he squeezed the hand he still held in his possession.

"Don't make this harder than it already is," she whispered.

"Which is harder," he leaned in over the middle console, "being with me," he kissed her again, taking his time--not to punish her, but to savor it for what it was, "or pretending that you don't want to?"

Her eyes remained closed, her mouth still half open, for a good minute after he pulled away. He figured she wouldn't answer. He couldn't imagine she'd say what he wanted to hear, but still he waited until she opened her eyes.

"I need to go."

He let out his breath. He'd gotten more out of her than he'd expected. "I'll go get Lane."

She nodded numbly, and he got out of car. There was nothing more he could say, nothing more he wanted to hear. He disagreed with her concerns; not because they weren't valid, but because no way would he let her settle for anything. At least, not if given the opportunity.

XXXX

"Hey, sorry to interrupt," Tristan leaned toward the couple who was happily swaying to No Doubt's _Don't Speak_.

Lane looked up and recognition filled her face. "Oh. Right. I guess this is really it."

"I could give you a ride later," Henry offered, probably not for the first time.

"That's sweet, but I should go with Rory," she relented. "But you'll call?"

"I will most definitely call," Henry smiled at her, clearly very newly infatuated.

"Good," Lane smiled back. "Um, Tristan?"

He'd expected this. "I'll walk you out."

"Thanks."

"Look," he said as they pulled away from Henry. "I appreciate the girl power, hurt her and I'll hurt you speech, but you can save it."

Lane shook her head and held up her hand. "So not what I was going to say Rich Boy."

He stopped and cocked an eyebrow. "Rich Boy?"

Lane waved her hand. "Rory is miserable."

He looked down at his feet. "Oh?"

"And I hate seeing her miserable."

"Your point?"

"You made her very unmiserable."

He looked up at her. "Like I said, this speech, it's," he began ,but she gave him the sternest look he'd ever received that made him stop in his tracks.

"Rory is going to come around. I just want to tell you not to give up on her yet, if you really love her as much as I think you do."

"She's not really giving me any other option."

"I know that before her, there were a lot of girls. And I'm guessing it would be easy for you to occupy yourself with that kind of thing now, but I know her. She's going to come around, and when she does, don't you want to be ready?"

"Look, Lane, I appreciate that you want this to work out," he shook his head. "I just don't see how it can happen. She doesn't want to be with me."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you. She does. She just doesn't know she does yet."

"Yeah, well, I've given her every opportunity to change her mind, and as of tonight, I'm done trying to change her mind."

Lane grabbed his elbow. "There's one thing that you haven't given her. Just, trust me, if you really love her, give her some time. Let her realize she needs you."

He just nodded and watched as she jogged down the flower-lined path to the driveway and navigated her way back to where Rory already had the car started and was ready to leave. He walked back into the party, nodding to Henry before looking around in a daze. He could find the friends he'd come to meet or get sloberingly drunk, but at the moment all he felt was lost.

He just wanted to disappear into the sea of people and forget that he wanted to be alone with her.


	18. No Matter Where You Go, There You Are

Title: Slipping Under The Surface

Chapter: 18—No Matter Where You Go, There You Are

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I don't own anything buy my laptop, and trust me, you don't want this laptop…

Description: Sequel to Untouched… Another Trory… It starts out M because Untouched was M…

He couldn't be the focus of her world.

Too much had happened over the last twenty-four hours for her to be sulking about a boy that had been her ex-boyfriend for the last month. Granted, it'd been a month spent doubting her decision, not made any easier by the few run-ins she'd had with him. The last occurrence had been the worst. Sitting in Madeline's driveway in her mother's Jeep, listening to him saying all the right things; it'd ripped her heart out to send him away after he told her that he was still in love with her. Especially after all she'd done to him. He still knew her; her thoughts, her motivations, her true feelings. She could still feel his lips on hers and the words that she held on the tip of her tongue, the ones that would have brought an end to both of their misery. It still brought tears to her eyes that she'd held the words in and watched him disappear back into the house without her.

She studied the road map for the tenth time, as her mother babbled on about the pervasiveness of country music on the local stations. She was trying to throw all her focus into finding out where they were local to, as her mother didn't seem ready to talk about the finer details of why they were reenacting _Thelma and Louise_ instead of _Betsy's Wedding._ All Lorelai had bequeathed upon her was that she hadn't wanted to try on her wedding dress every night, a phrase that stuck in her own mind like gum to the bottom of her shoe. From the moment her grandmother had told that story at the bachelorette party, of how excited she'd gotten at the thought of marrying the man of her dreams, Rory had tried her best not to think that she'd thrown away her own opportunity to have that kind of love.

"Just put it away. I think I know where we are."

Rory rolled her eyes. "You think you know, as in we crossed a state line while I was looking for my map, or you passed a road sign that said free coffee at the next rest stop?"

Lorelai looked horrified. "I would never drink that coffee. It always tastes like they just ran water through an old coffee pot, forgetting to add the grounds," she pointed out.

Rory couldn't disagree. "So, where are we?"

Lorelai smiled. "A friend of mine has a B&B nearby."

"You hate B&Bs."

"This one's different. Each room has a unique theme, and he doesn't encourage mingling. We'll just go in, say hi, drop our stuff, and go have a nice dinner."

Rory shrugged. "I guess it's better than sleeping in the car and eating whatever's at the bottom of your purse."

"I could use some coffee, though," Lorelai sighed. "We left before Luke's opened. I hope that didn't set the theme for this trip."

"Like an omen?"

"Like a bad coffee omen," she agreed, clearly pleased at the innocuous bantering.

Rory looked out the window, watching the scenes speed past as her mother continued on toward nowhere. She had nothing to look forward to now, other than going back to school to face two men around whom she now had no idea how to act.

"Rory? You okay, Hon?"

Rory didn't look at her mother, but she nodded. At her unconvincing response, her mother put a hand on her shoulder. "Do you want to talk about what happened?"

She turned to see the concern on her mother's face. "Are you sure you don't want to go back? I'm sure Max still loves you, if you just freaked out you can explain," she began.

Lorelai's guard went up. "No, Rory, I meant do you want to talk about what happened with Tristan?"

Rory blinked. "That's over with, Mom. I told you, there's nothing else to tell."

Lorelai clearly didn't believe her. She'd made that painfully clear since she had showed up to rescue her from that fateful trip they'd taken to Martha's Vineyard. Lorelai had been sure that Tristan had been pressuring her into something and concerned about the apparent funk that Rory couldn't seem to shake ever since they'd broken up. Doing her best at putting on a brave face clearly wasn't a talent she held. After each run-in she'd had with Tristan since, her mother had gotten more and more insistent with her questioning. Her reservations about her own relationship must have taken over her mind since the bachelorette party, as Rory had enjoyed the reprieve of having to answer only to her own niggling questions. Until now, it seemed.

"I just don't understand why you won't tell me what happened."

Rory turned to her mother sharply. "Why don't you want to tell me exactly what happened with Max?"

Lorelai stiffened. "It's complicated."

Rory looked back out the window. "So is this."

Lorelai seemed to take that as an answer, at least one for the time being, and let it drop. She turned up the music, having found a station that played 80s music, and they drove the rest of the way to the bed and breakfast with only George Michael and Culture Club to fill the silence between them, though they only really heard their own thoughts.

XXXX

She was sitting with her legs crossed underneath her in the ugliest room in the known world. Her mother had been in the bathroom for ten minutes, and she hadn't had anything to eat but nuts all day. Her caffeine level was so low, that her eyelids were almost unable to stay open by themselves.

She had thrown everything into her bag in about ten minutes' time before they left, and apparently she'd put her cell phone in her purse. She snapped out of her haze when it rang out, and she scrambled to grab it before her mother could come out of the bathroom.

She saw his name across the display. Her phone was the one place she hadn't purged him from, an oversight that now made her heart swell as she watched the evidence all lit up on the display. She hit the button on the side of the phone that would send him to voicemail. She wasn't ready to talk to him, fearing she'd never be ready as she was still too liable to agree to fall back into their relationship if he pressed her too much. Not only wasn't she ready to talk to him, but the whole point of this trip was being supportive of her mother, who could be ready to truly grieve at any moment. So far she was still in denial, but she knew from past experience that even the smallest crack would create a huge chasm in her carefully constructed façade, and she had to be ready to play the best friend role to her mother the moment it happened.

"Who was that?" Lorelai asked, coming out of the bathroom with a fresh face.

"Nobody," she lied, tucking the phone under the pillow. "So, shall we head to dinner?"

Lorelai cringed. "Didn't you see the list of activities? They're booked through the midnight snack. I think we should just ignore the hunger and start fresh in the morning when we check out."

Rory chewed on her lip. "Where are we going tomorrow?"

"I have a few ideas."

"If you want, we can just head home. I still need a few supplies before school starts, anyhow."

"After that last trip to Staples? We did more damage there than I did the last time I went to the mall to update my fall wardrobe," she said pointedly.

"We have to go home sometime."

"We will. But this is a road trip; we have to see something fun first. And this place doesn't qualify."

Rory shrugged. She didn't feel like having fun. She had been anticipating the wedding, not only to see her mother and Max happy, but as a genuine distraction from her own romantic problems. "I guess. Did you call Sookie?"

Lorelai nodded. "She promised to pass the word to Patty."

"What about Grandma?"

Lorelai groaned.

"Mom!"

"You call her," Lorelai motioned toward the pillow where she was concealing her phone.

"I'm not the one that called off my wedding," she retorted, meaning to be lighthearted. She flinched as she saw the cloud cover over her mother's normally bright eyes. She decided to try to open the doors of communication one more time. "Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?"

"We already talked," Lorelai flipped off the light and onto her right side, facing away from her daughter.

"You just said you didn't want to try on your dress," Rory tried to make it sound like she didn't understand the significance.

Lorelai took in a deep breath, and then let it out a moment later. "You have to trust me, it wasn't right."

"But you loved him."

There was silence that made her uneasy. She'd never heard her mother say those words to Max, but she knew he was enamored of her, and she had agreed to marry him. And she'd refused to marry Christopher, several times in fact, despite the fact that she loved him.

"Mom? You did love Max, didn't you?"

"I wish," she began, sounding very small. "I wanted to. You have no idea how much."

"Oh."

Rory wondered if it would have been easier for her to break up with Tristan if she hadn't loved him. If Max was in any less anguish over the break up knowing that there probably was someone else out there better suited for him—someone that would love him like he loved them. She couldn't imagine anyone loving Tristan more than she did, and that made her heart burn.

XXXX

Waking up the next morning didn't find her refreshed or revived. Her stomach felt like a dried up prune, she had a massive headache, and her eyes burned from crying herself to sleep. Her mother didn't look like she had fared much better on her side of the bed.

"God," she heard her mother groan as she opened her eyes.

"What?"

"That wallpaper. I had a dream that the flowers were coming off the wall, trying to strangle us."

"I'm pretty sure the flowers are immobile."

"They're watching us."

Rory sighed and threw the covers back. In between tossing and turning, she'd dreamed that she'd actually answered her phone last night. It'd been a long night, but she couldn't lie to herself and say she didn't enjoy hearing this voice in her ear; even it was all in her head. She padded to the bathroom as her mother glared at the walls. She came out with her toothbrush in her mouth.

"Get up."

"Fine," her mother grumbled, moving to change her clothes. Rory disappeared back in the bathroom to finish gathering her things and by the time she'd returned, her mother was changed and zipping up her bags. Rory pulled her map out once the rest of her bag was packed and stared at the surrounding towns. Tiny places, tourist traps, and a lot of nothing was what she found.

"Put the map away," Lorelai warned.

"No. We can't drive aimlessly all day with no food again."

Lorelai came over and looked at the map over her shoulder before swiping it out of her hands. She now had a huge smile on her lips.

"Hey, give that back!"

"No need. I know where we're going!"

Rory picked up her bag, mimicking her mother's motion as she headed toward the door. "Where?"

"You'll see when we get there. You're going to love it."

"Why? Do they have coffee?"

Lorelai nodded. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

Rory wasn't convinced. "Good coffee?"

Lorelai thought for a moment. "I'm willing to stake a claim on it."

"Mom, tell me where we're going and I can map a route to get there efficiently," she offered.

Her mother shook her head, still smiling. "Just take our bags to the car. I'll check us out with the scary wallpaper lady and her singing band of freaks that she calls guests."

Rory cringed. "Are you sure you can evade them all by yourself?"

"I'll just tell them you have female problems," she waved the idea off.

"Mom," Rory cringed.

"It always works with Luke," Lorelai joked as they shut their door and stood listening in the hallway. "Go now, I don't hear any noise. It must be a break in the list."

Rory stood, listening as well. "It feels like a trap."

Lorelai turned her toward the stairs. "Just look straight ahead, don't make direct eye contact with anyone, and watch out for Sammy. If someone does stop you, hunch over, grab your stomach, and groan about having cramps."

"Such sage life advice you dispense," Rory grumbled and made her way toward the car, miraculously not stopped by any of the other mingling guests. She hoped her mother would be as lucky and soon they'd be seated at the nearest diner, inhaling two stacks of pancakes with sides of various fried meats.

She packed her bag into the back of the Jeep and took her place in the passenger seat. She closed her eyes, trying to ignore the growling of her stomach and the desire to call Tristan back. She hadn't even checked if he'd left a message, having gone right to sleep after the strained conversation with her mother. Maybe it was the lack of good sleep or the low blood sugar and caffeine levels, but she pulled out her cell and flipped it open, to check for messages.

She was deprived of getting to hear his voice, but she did have one new text message. Taking a deep breath, she clicked on the button that allowed her to read what he'd written.

'I saw Medina. Where are you?'

Her heart lurched. The fact that she didn't want to need him didn't make it any less tempting to let him be there for her. She reminded herself that all she had to do was ignore the messages, keep discouraging his affection, and soon enough the new school year would arrive and hopefully he'd find a new distraction. Probably a blonde one with an IQ in the nineties with an amazing ability to annoy her as they made out in the hallways. But then she wouldn't have to worry about being the one to break his heart, not to mention her own. The idea that she was her own worst fear was definitely sealed in her mind now.

She immediately began to type quickly on the phone. She knew he was concerned, and it seemed unfair to keep him unduly worried.

'Boston. Mom needed to get away.'

She'd just hit send when her mother slid behind the wheel. "I am never going back to another B&B as long as I live. Why would anyone want to pay to be tortured like that?"

"Beats me," Rory tried to shove the phone into her pocket unnoticed. Unfortunately, Lorelai rarely missed anything.

"Another call from nobody?"

Rory shook her head. "No one called."

"No one wouldn't be a privileged blonde that wants you back, would he?"

Rory sighed and ran her fingers over her phone. She felt the phone vibrate in her hand, as if he'd been waiting for a response. Lorelai gave her a knowing look.

"He's persistent, if nothing else. How many times has he apologized?"

Rory muttered in reply. "He hasn't."

Lorelai didn't try to hide her shock in any way, shape, or form. She gripped the steering wheel and cocked her head. "He didn't? I realize he's pretty, but is that all there is to him?"

"He had nothing to apologize for!" Rory defended, surprising her.

"Rory, just tell me what happened!"

She shook her head, wanting nothing more to disappear. She took a shaky breath, feeling the weight of all her seemingly smart decisions come crashing down on her as she realized how irrevocably wrong she'd been ever since she decided he couldn't be the most important thing in her life.

"I…," she closed her eyes. "I could picture trying on my wedding dress, every night," she admitted, unable to look her mother in the eyes while she said it. There was what she assumed was stunned silence for the longest time, and they sat there in the Jeep, taking in the revelation.

"Oh, Honey," was the only response she got. She opened her eyes, almost wishing her mother would tell her she was smart to do what she'd done. If she had any hope of not giving in, she'd need someone on her side. Instead of praising her decision, she ignited the engine and began to drive. It wasn't until they parked at Harvard University that Rory's eyes truly welled up. Lorelai cut the engine and looked at her in anguish.

"If you're so miserable without him, maybe you should just call him."

Rory pointed out the window. "We're at Harvard."

"I promised to take you."

"I came here, with Tristan, on our tour of schools," she began. "He knew it's where I've always wanted to go, but we hit a few other schools as well. The whole time we were here, I kept thinking it was fine, but it didn't have anything that Yale didn't have."

Lorelai frowned, but didn't say anything. She was waiting for her daughter to continue.

"Tristan is going to Yale. He doesn't really have a say in the matter, not like I do. He only took me to other schools for my benefit, because I had a choice, and he was encouraging that choice. But all I could think of was that I wanted to be where he was, and I didn't know if it was because he would be there or because Yale really might be the best place for me."

"So, that's you broke up with him?"

Rory nodded.

"But you love him." It wasn't a question, simply a matter of fact.

Tears flowed down her cheeks. She wiped furiously at her cheeks, hoping that if she was determined enough, she could stop the stream. "I had to figure out what it was I wanted."

Lorelai took a breath of courage; sure she didn't want to hear the answer to her next question. "So, what do you want?"

Rory's eyes gave it away even before she could say anything. Her mother nodded. "Well, at any rate, I've never seen Harvard. We're here; we might as well get some coffee and look around."

Rory nodded and got out of the car, hoping against hope that this visit would give her more clarity than the last visit had. If only she could count on his lack of proximity to provide her with insight.

No matter where she went, all she could see was him.


	19. If You Need Her, You Should Be There

Title: Slipping Under The Surface

Chapter: 19—If You Need Her, You Should Be There

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I don't own anything buy my laptop, and trust me, you don't want this laptop…

Description: Sequel to Untouched… Another Trory… It starts out M because Untouched was M…

Final AN: So, yeah. Sorry, to all who have been waiting a long time for this. I had it half written for many months now, but the finishing got interrupted by the having a baby and all the exhaustion that follows. This is, at long last, the final chapter. Thanks for all the reviews and support, you guys were awesome. Oh, and the chapter title is from one of my favorite BNL songs, off of Maroon called 'Go Home'.

She'd left her mark.

He wasn't the kind of guy that sat around, pining for a girl that was hell bent on denying him or his affections. The moment Rory called it off, Tristan should have moved on to the next available body. She should have dropped off his radar completely. It's how it had always been in the past; a break-up was a complete break. Something in his mind just shut off, making his need for that particular girl non-existent.

The only problem with expecting it to be the same was the fact that nothing about his relationship with Rory had been the same as any other relationship he'd ever had. She didn't exist for him only in his mind; his desire for her wasn't something that was limited to the images he could conjure up in his mind's eye. She'd seeped in deeper, infiltrating every last fiber of his body. He found that his arms ached because he couldn't hold her, his eyes burned because he couldn't see her, and even simple actions taken on his part felt hollow because none of them were taking him closer to her.

Still, unless directly confronted with her, he did his best not to dwell on the fact that the one woman he'd ever loved—potentially the only woman he might ever love—didn't think that love was enough to keep them together. The last time he'd seen her, he'd gone overboard. Even in the name of trying to get her to see reason, he couldn't rationalize his actions as anything other than pathetic.

He'd only gone on campus to see his guidance counselor. It was a routine trip, to have a conversation about his potential, his college plans (though he was pretty sure YALE was stamped in ink across any papers involving his college career) and which classes he needed to take to help him realize all of this.

He was in the process of sliding the No. 2 pencil his guidance counselor had offered him to mark the courses that would fill his junior year schedule—nothing cohesive enough to find this so-called path Mr. Embry kept badgering him about, but the finished result seemed to please him. Whether or not she would take any of the same courses entered his mind, but he couldn't decide if seeing her under their current circumstances was something he was ready to endure.

He just wanted to get to the bookstore to get his required reading and get out. He had one more week of solitude at home before his parents' return, and the same length of time before he was plagued by meaningless and uncomfortable run-ins with her in the halls. This was his last chance to walk around this place without her, but he hadn't counted on meeting ghosts roaming around that would affect him as much as a real-life encounter with his ex.

The interception caught him like a deer in headlights. Halfway to the Chilton bookstore, his literature instructor stepped out of an empty classroom. The look on his face was a mix of stricken panic and immediate understanding. Tristan instantly knew there was no longer a wedding to ask about out of pleasantry or to show his good manners. Max Medina had the same affliction he was suffering from; he'd been blindsided by a Gilmore.

There was nothing he could say, but the longer they stood there staring at one another, the more it was inevitable that someone had to say something.

"Tristan," Max found his voice first. It was full of hope that what wasn't to be would be sidestepped all together.

"Mr. Medina."

It seemed wrong, to be so formal with a brother in arms. But they were on school grounds and shared no connection that the world outside of Stars Hollow would recognize, besides the fact that they were a teacher and his pupil. Tristan couldn't even remember a time when his life was so simple.

He cleared his throat. "I'm just headed to the bookstore."

Max shifted to one side, grateful that the chance meeting showed no signs of becoming prolonged. They'd both been through enough.

"Right. Don't let me stop you. I'll see you in class."

He sounded normal enough, but that look in his eyes… it was haunting. Tristan wanted to tell him that he understood, or that he empathized in a way that no one else could, but he opted for nodding and letting each man go about mourning their losses privately.

His solace, he knew, wasn't to be found at the Chilton bookstore, pretending that nothing had changed and life was going on as planned. He abandoned the prudent plan and found himself behind the wheel of his car, crossing county lines as he dialed her number on his cell phone and hoping against hope that he'd learned something about these women in the time he'd spent as someone important in her life. And if not, then he figured at least a road trip probably couldn't hurt.

XXXX

He hadn't bothered to tell anyone that he wouldn't be home that night. Even if his parents had been home, it was more likely that one of the staff would notice the discrepancy at the dinner table before them. There was only one person that he cared about being able to locate him, and with any luck she'd find him the next day.

He spent the night with his phone on the nightstand, next to the tray of room service he barely picked over. His anxiety left him when he finally got a response from her in the form of a text message. She didn't give him any information at all, certainly not giving away her whereabouts, but he was still sure that he was correct in his guesstimate. If Lorelai had run away, she would have but one resource at her disposal to distract the one person she couldn't run from, no matter where she went. A trip meant they were finally going to discover what lie ahead for Rory at Harvard, which was as much of a dream of Lorelai's as it was for Rory.

He did wonder if the school would now offer her enough to make losing him worth it. Not just the pain she'd inflicted on him, but the agony he'd seen in her eyes, felt built up in her muscles, and released in their last kiss.

He would never be sorry he'd taken that particular liberty.

XXXX

He ordered a cup of coffee and prepared for a long wait. The waitress was clearly a student, only a few years older than he was. The pretty blonde coed tilted her hips to one side as she paused at his table, asking if he needed anything else. He assured her it was only the coffee he was looking for, at least from her.

Tristan took a sip, letting the strong brew overwhelming him for a moment. Before they had come to this coffee shop together, Rory had done an on-the-street reporter search for the best coffee on campus, because, as she'd so bluntly informed him, she couldn't go four years with bad coffee.

He knew it would be a stop for the women on their tour, though he had no idea how to go about getting Rory alone once that happened. If pressed, he was fully willing to present his feelings right in front of Lorelai. At this point, he couldn't hide anything anyhow.

His main aim now was to make sure Rory was okay.

She didn't see him at first. Satisfying her craving was at the forefront of her mind, as if she'd gone days on end without the only thing that could fill the void created in her. And it had nothing to do with him.

Rory walked right past his table upon entering the shop, but he knew it was her before she came past his back and into view. She was moving quickly—something she only did to get coffee, if she were running late for class, or, once upon a time, when she was coming toward him in greeting—and he caught the scent of her freesia shampoo. He watched, sitting back in his chair, as she stepped impatiently to the counter and ordered two large cups to go.

He could never be sure with her if that particular order was just for her or if she was being forced to share with someone else, meaning she wasn't as alone as she appeared to be. He was as patient as he'd ever been as he waited for her to turn and recognize her audience.

It wasn't total disbelief in her eyes as they focused on his. He could tell that while she hadn't let herself expect him to be there, her imagination had still given the idea more than a passing thought of what it would be like if he was. Instantly he just wanted to know if those thoughts were spurred by need or want, because he sure as hell didn't want any of this.

He'd come all this way, but he wasn't willing to take the extra three steps necessary at this point. She had to need him, too.

And she did.

"What are you doing here?" she asked as she approached his table. She didn't run into his arms, by any means. Her steps were cautious, as though he might have come for the attention of the college waitresses.

"I told you. I saw Medina."

Her eyes checked the door. Clearly Lorelai was looming and not up to joining such a discussion.

"How is he?"

Tristan shrugged. "As good as could be expected."

She nodded, not wanting to expound upon it.

"How are you?"

She crossed her arms as she stood against the side of his table. "Mom's not really saying much. I thought she'd talk to me, but so far she just drags me around in the Jeep, no destination in sight," she began to ramble.

"Rory," he reached up and touched her arm to get her attention to focus. "How are you?"

She sat down in the chair next to his, her leg brushing up against his. He didn't let go of her arm, and she made no sign of trying to break free.

"I'm … disappointed, I guess? I don't understand," she bit her lip and searched for the words. "Max is this great guy, who loves her, and I thought she loved him," she looked up into his eyes. "How do you not know if you love someone?"

He couldn't look away from her. "I don't know."

She looked down at the table, or maybe at where their legs were nestled together, he couldn't tell.

"Tristan?"

His heart stopped, as if instructed by the tone of her voice. "Yeah?"

"I've been doing a lot of thinking."

He nodded slightly, almost afraid to interrupt her. "About?"

"I think I want to go to Yale."

He wasn't about to read more into her words than what she was willing, or able, to tell him. They'd been through too much. Just because he loved her didn't mean that he could make her be ready to be in this relationship. He'd learned that much.

"Why is that?"

She took in a breath. "Academically, they're on an even keel. I'd get a great education either place. But there are things I'd have to give up if I came to Harvard that I'm not willing to let go of."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Like what?"

She smiled as she put her hand over his. "Well, at Yale, I'd be close to home, close to Mom and my grandparents. And then there's you."

"You didn't want to make this decision based on me," he reminded her. He knew there was more, and it was all he had to hear to believe her, but he still had to hear it first. He couldn't take vague promises of maybe.

"I know. That's why I've done so much thinking lately, especially since Mom called off the wedding. It just seems to me that in some cases, you'll get more than one opportunity to accomplish certain goals or experience things," she paused and took in another breath. One of bracing courage. "I understand if you don't agree, after everything I've done, but I'm not sure that people get a second chance at finding what you and I had. I don't want to have to call off a wedding to a guy that I want to love in fifteen years. I just want to be with the man I love, regardless of everything else."

He squeezed her hand and nodded. In the movie version of their lives, music should have swelled in the background and he would have taken her into his arms and set a new record for longest on-screen kiss. But while it was what he wanted to hear, she was right—she'd put him through a lot. She'd doubted everything they'd been through together. He'd never understood how she could think what he felt for her couldn't be enough. Nothing had seemed insurmountable to him, even going to different schools in the near future. Maybe she would have protested at his using his wealth in such a way, but even if it entailed weekly cross-country plane trips and nightly long-distance calls, he would have footed those bills gladly.

"I need you to be sure. Maybe Medina was fooling himself, but I saw… he loved your mom. It was more than canceling the wedding. She changed the course of his entire life. I've been thinking a lot too, realizing that I couldn't make you change your mind," he shook his head.

"I've got two large coffees to go!" came the voice from the counter. He could see she was in no state to get up from the table, lest she shatter into pieces on the way to the counter. He stood up, leaving her alone at the table, and walked to the counter.

"Put these on my tab," he said in a low voice.

The flirtatious waitress looked nonplussed as she took his cash. He stuffed the change into the tip jar and walked back over to where Rory was still seated. She hadn't moved an inch. He reached his arms around her shoulders and set the coffees on the table in front of her. He took the opportunity to lean in close, his mouth to her ear.

"Is Lorelai waiting for you?"

She nodded.

"I'm hoping that's the reason you're not telling me that giving this another shot will be worth it; that you won't freak out on me again."

She turned slightly back to look at him. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. "I didn't think…."

He sighed. "I came to Boston. Did you really think I have any other choice but to still want you?"

"I really don't deserve," she broke off before the tears came and closed her eyes, leaning in close enough to rest her forehead against his cheek.

"I could tell you that it's too late, all the same shit I've been telling myself about moving on and getting past us. But I'm here."

In the next moment she was wrapped around his torso, warm and clinging, her lips seeking his for the first time in too long. He let her melt against him, his stronger arms encasing hers, lifting her closer to him and not noticing the fact that everyone in the shop was staring at them.

This, they soon realized, included a rather surprised, caffeine-deprived brunette in the doorway. In fact, if not for the fact that she cleared her throat so obviously, he wasn't sure how long they might have stood there in the middle of the shop sealed to one another as if they had all the privacy in the world.

"How long was I out there?" she asked, somewhat rhetorically.

"He followed me here. Can we keep him?" Rory asked playfully.

Lorelai raised an eyebrow at the pair that was still dangerously close to each other, in that way they had that made a mother more nervous than any classified phobia ever could. "You realize the coffee's on you now that you've invited yourself along," was all she said in response.

Tristan smiled. "Already done."

Lorelai nodded. "All right, then. Shall we go?"

Rory looked back at him. "You don't have to, we've already," she began, making sure of his intentions.

"Do you want me to come along?"

She nodded. "But only if you really want to."

"Okay, enough. You've making me sick already," her mother groaned. "I realized you're due for the obligatory smushy get back together haze of gooey goodness, where you're oblivious to everyone else around you, but could you at least wait until I'm out of sight for a good five minutes? Or at least under the effects of a really good sedative?"

Her daughter handed her the second coffee in response. Lorelai snorted. "Oh, it's going to take way more than one cup of coffee to deal with a newly reunited two of you for the next day. Oooh," she said as the caffeine kicked into her system. "I think I've found an avenue for my revenge!"

Tristan and Rory exchanged a knowing and worried glance and started to book it for the door just as the singing began.

"_Reunited and it feels so go-oood… Reunited 'cause we understo-oood…."_

XXXX

_Four months later_

"You're late."

"Did you ever consider that you're early?" Lorelai baited Taylor as she and Rory settled into the two seats that Tristan had saved for them. He wrapped an arm around his girlfriend's shoulders, still damp from the walk from the Jeep in the rain. Both women were dressed up from their weekly dinner at her grandparents' house. He kissed her temple in greeting and she slipped a hand on his knee as they listened to the bickering.

"This isn't a parked car, you two. No one appreciates public displays of teenaged hormones running unabated."

"I always thought it was called affection," Lorelai mused.

"And I definitely appreciate it," Tristan piped up.

"What kind of example are you setting? They're your responsibility," Taylor chastised Lorelai.

She raised her hands. "Whoa, he's not mine. I tolerate him, but I don't claim him on any kind of governmental form. And she's very responsible."

"Aw, come on, Mom," Tristan teased.

She shot him a lethal look, making him actually think twice about the teasing that came so naturally.

"Not even a little?" he checked.

"Unless you find blinding, fatal-wound-inducing pain humorous," she offered.

"Taylor, isn't this an emergency meeting?" This time it was his girlfriend, the general voice of reason, to speak up.

"You'd know that if you weren't late," Taylor huffed.

"But we sent a seat-saver, I mean, a representative," Rory reasoned.

"He's not a representative if you won't claim him."

Rory pointed to her mother. "That was her!"

"So, you claim him?"

"Just get on with this, Taylor," Luke grumbled from across the room. "Some of us were on time and don't have all night."

"You are going to be open later, right? I need pie," Lorelai spoke across the room, completely ignoring Taylor.

"No one _needs_ pie," Luke sighed.

"Then why do you serve it?" she challenged.

"Didn't you just come from dinner?"

"So?"

"People! I called an _emergency_ meeting. All this pie talk isn't helping! There are serious, more pressing issues at hand!" Taylor yelped as he banged his gavel on his hand in his vigor.

"You should put some ice on that," Ms. Patty mused from her seat at his side.

Taylor looked beyond exasperated. Tristan smirked and pulled the bag of popcorn he'd purchased across the street before coming into the dance studio from under his chair. The movie at the Black, White, and Read that he and Rory were going to was on hold until after the meeting, but the concession stand had already opened. His warm hand met hers in the tub of buttered and popped kernels.

"I'm trying to talk about elephant ears!"

"That's it. I'm gonna kill him," Luke announced as he stood up.

"I'm completely serious! The winter carnival is three weeks away, and we are in serious danger of being without elephant ears! What is the winter carnival without elephant ears?"

"The eternal question, yet again," Lorelai reached for the popcorn.

Rory smacked her hand away. "You're getting pie."

Lorelai turned to Tristan and gave him the same face that usually resulted in him giving into whatever the demand was when Rory used it. Luckily, he was only susceptible to the charms of one woman. He shook his head.

"Guess claiming me now doesn't sound so bad, does it?"

The meeting continued on with a rush of unsuitable suggestions for replacing the regular elephant ear vendor, who apparently wasn't likely to make bail before the carnival. .Lorelai suggested a pie booth, run by Luke, who in turn threatened not to stay open after the meeting, whether or not people had blood sugar issues.

By the time they emerged, hand-in-hand, Tristan wasn't sure he could sit still for another two hours.

"Let's take a walk," she suggested, as if reading his mind.

"You want pie?" he asked knowingly.

She smiled and laughed into the night air. "No. I just feel like I've already had dinner and a show."

"How are Richard and Emily?" he asked, referring to the prior events of her evening.

She shook her head in resigned frustration. "Less subtle than some."

"I said I'd come," he responded supportively with a tinge of I-told-you-so.

She gave him a look. "Mom said you were too eager."

"It's just a dinner."

Rory sighed. "That's what I said. But Mom's sure that they'll invite half of Hartford or try to fit me for another cotillion dress."

"Your mother has trust issues."

"Just be glad she trusts me," she poked him in the chest.

He looked around as she continued to take the lead on their walk. "Where are we going?"

She looked up at him. "Now who has trust issues?"

"I trust you. I was just hoping for somewhere secluded."

"You always want to be somewhere secluded. Maybe we should see about getting you a nice padded room for some solitary confinement."

He wrapped an arm more securely around her waist. "As long as you're in there with me."

She rolled her eyes at him; after all this time, he still couldn't resist such comments. If he really thought she minded, perhaps he'd try to put a cap on it, but the way she leaned into him in the silence accompanying her disgruntled facial expressions led him to believe she enjoyed the pubescent version of flirting.

"You know I always have reasons for wanting to be alone with you."

"This is why my mother is only half kidding when she talks about letting Emily pay for having a chastity belt custom made."

"Who's chaste?" he asked in a deeper tone, making her blush. "Seriously, there was something I wanted to discuss with you."

"You want to talk?" she asked nervously. While they had been together without much unnecessary drama for the last few months, the last round of tests had left him with fewer nights with her as she'd barricaded herself off in study mode.

"Relax. I realize you think that they only way you, who has the highest G.P.A. in our class and couldn't fail a test unless you weren't allowed to take it," he smirked at her, reminding her of the one and only test she missed at Chilton their sophomore year, "is to quarantine yourself off. But I think that all this hard work, and patience on my part, should be rewarded."

Her anxiety faded into suspicion. After all, she couldn't throw him very far. "What kind of reward?"

"I'm thinking of spring break."

"Spring break?" she repeated.

"Yes, you know that week they give us off for good behavior? Even the school thinks we deserve to enjoy ourselves some time."

"I know what spring break is, thank you."

"Good. This is kind of the time to be planning for that trip."

"Trip?" she blinked.

"A journey to somewhere that isn't here."

"You're going somewhere?"

"Ah, see, I was hoping that we would go somewhere."

"I'm not going to Florida," she shook her head. He figured she'd want no part in the teenaged wasteland that was the annual mecca for every single girl gone wild and boy wishing to witness said girls.

"But I already bought you a thong," he deadpanned.

She smacked him, hard, in the arm and gave him her most disgusted look. "I refuse to wear butt floss."

"It's not like you'd be wearing it very long," he reasoned.

"Tristan," she warned.

"Relax. I'm not talking about Florida. But we can discuss thongs, since you seem to have dismissed them altogether too easily."

She waved a hand. "Then what are you talking about?"

He stopped and turned to face her. She stopped in confusion and looked up into his eyes. He had been thinking about broaching this subject for a while, and even though they were happy and relatively stable—they couldn't give up fighting completely, after all—this still gave him pause.

"I was hoping we could go back to my family's beach house."

Her eyes widened, and she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, instantly beginning to worry it. "Tristan," she said gently. She wanted to let him down easily; her tone was saturated with the sound of gentle dismissal. Even if she wanted to go, in her mind it wasn't an option.

"Hear me out, okay?" he said quickly, willing to have her hear his thoughts before her own could cement the negation in her mind.

She nodded, a good sign that underneath all the why nots, there was a desire to go.

"First of all, we'll go to Lorelai together and ask her if it's okay with her," he said perhaps the most important bit of the plan outright, if nothing else to show her that their time together had taught him something, and he was putting her first.

He saw the hope flash over her face before she lowered her eyes. "She's not going to go for it."

"She might. First of all, sadly, we're not going to be alone."

"We're not?"

He sighed. "My parents will be there. They were supposed to be going to Spain for the week, but my aunt called Mom and suggested we all meet there for the week."

"So—we're going to be hanging out with your family?" she asked slowly. It was a new concept, after all.

"I think Emily's been making some calls," he smirked. "All of a sudden, Mom's been asking me all these questions about you and us," he sighed. "Not that I want to spend a vacation sharing you with my parents, but not only will having you there be a nice distraction for me, but it will shut her up a bit if she gets to know you a little."

"Wait a minute. You have to go."

He really had hoped she wouldn't have caught onto that fact so readily. "Yes."

She suddenly smiled with great triumph. "Huh."

"Rory," he shook his head.

"You really want me to come, don't you?"

He sighed. "So much that my back up for Lorelai saying no is asking her to join in on the fun."

Her eyes widened in glee. "Ohmygod. Tristan Dugrey, I don't believe it."

"Do you want to go, or not?" he narrowed his eyes, not enjoying being teased.

"That depends. How much do you want me to go?" she walked backward, leading him on.

"You're going to drag this out and torture me, aren't you?"

"May-be," she drawled.

He sighed. "I don't have to take this kind of abuse," he lied.

"Sure you do," she batted her eyelashes.

"Fine. Let's talk logistics. What's it going to take?"

"I'm not sure you can afford this hefty of a price tag," she shrugged her shoulders as they walked under the grove of trees, out of sight from traffic and pedestrians roaming around town. They walked along into the dark, seeking out solitude together and continuing to wager, back and forth in a struggle of wills, fighting it out for different means to the same end.

Because in the end, it wasn't a scar, but proof of what their love could withstand, that she'd etched into his soul.


End file.
